


How to Love and Be Loved By a Sociopath

by enigmalea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And since Angst makes great relationship development, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Sherlock, But Season 3 and 4 are Brutal, Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dirty Talk, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forgive Me, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, I kept it, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Pegging, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, So sorry Reichenbach Fall is Bad, Some small parentlock scenes at the end, bottom!John, top!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-29 00:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes, but Holmes is a sociopath incapable of fully expressing his emotions. Their relationship will never be declarations of love or sweet romance; there will never be candlelit dinners or elaborate Valentine's presents. Dates and times are insignificant and are passed without comment. But what they do have is obsession, passion, admiration, and quiet devotion. With this the world's most selfless man and the world's most selfish might settle into something akin to a relationship.





	1. A Growing Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start to a longer work that's been spinning around my brain since the release of Season 4. The inspiration hit during NaNoWriMo and I churned out the first two chapters in one day. I need to get back to NaNo if I have any hopes of winning, so I have no idea when I get back to this, but I do feel like I will come back to complete this soon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explores his newest obsession: John Watson.
> 
> * * *
> 
> And one day, while John was out, probably having a row with a pin and chip machine, Sherlock realized he was aroused. The hammering of his heart in his memory was triggering an autonomic response, now. He had slipped into his bedroom, and masturbated furiously, thinking of nothing but Watson. His hands, his eyes, his lips, his devotion to and obsession with Sherlock.
> 
> It was the most intense orgasm he’d had in years.

Any fool could see obsession permeated the lives, no the very cells, of the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes, for example, was obsessed with puzzles, danger, drugs, knowledge, science, and himself. Dr. John Hamish Watson was obsessed with honour, propriety, morality, adrenaline, saving lives, and Sherlock. Even their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was obsessed with the intrigue, the spontaneity, and taking care of the men who lived in the unit above her.

Their obsessions spilled out for the world to see, though no one mentioned them in polite company, and no one could blame them, really, for enjoying the things they enjoyed. It was just the type of men they were. It was clear to Sherlock, even after their first case, that Watson’s obsession with him would be invaluable. A man willing to kill on one’s behalf… a man who was not a total dimwit, no, on the contrary, who was both intelligent and yet, in tune with people’s emotions, was more than useful. He was necessary.

But it wasn’t until Moriarty had them in a darkened swimming pool, with John strapped to explosives, and sniper’s laser sights pointed on them that Sherlock realised how necessary Dr. John Watson really was. He wasn’t just a man willing to _kill_ for him, but a man willing to _die_ for him, as well.

It was thus Sherlock’s obsession with John Watson began.

The first time he masturbated while thinking of his flatmate, Sherlock chalked it up to simply having survived together. Adrenaline and near death situations often resulted in sexual urges, and attractions to others one wouldn’t normally be attracted to. It was a tale as old as time - the tale of soldiers of war finding comfort in each other’s presence and stealing away into dark corners for sexually charged trysts.

He had spent quite a bit of time in his mind palace, replaying the events in the swimming pool, remembering the look on John’s face as he threw himself at Moriarty in a futile attempt to save Sherlock over and over again. The look he had when Sherlock was now the target also intrigued him. So did the hammering of his own heart, the electricity tingling through his nerves, the speed his brain was calculating, deducing, the looming sense of doom, and the incredible sense of relief when the ordeal was over. Entire days skipped by him, he lost track of when and where he was.

And one day, while John was out, probably having a row with a pin and chip machine, Sherlock realised he was aroused. The hammering of his heart in his memory was triggering an autonomic response, now. He had slipped into his bedroom, and masturbated furiously, thinking of nothing but Watson. His hands, his eyes, his lips, his devotion to and obsession with Sherlock.

It was the most intense orgasm he’d had in years.

Watson didn’t immediately replace all of his fantasies, obviously. He often thought of other women and men. Sometimes strangers or fictional characters he’d built entire relationships with. People assumed Sherlock was a machine, not quite human, but being a high-functioning sociopath didn’t turn off his ability to fantasise, have an imagination, or to desire.

Slowly, over time, Watson became his main point of focus for his self-pleasure.

It disturbed him greatly.

Not because of his own sexuality, but because of John ‘Not Gay!' Watson’s. The man had stated he wasn’t gay so many times, Sherlock had accepted he was either too deeply closeted to ever come out or he actually felt no attraction to men at all. Either way, the advances Sherlock had planned in great detail, the carefully constructed fantasies, the hopes of actually satiating his desire with real events, could never come to pass.

And so he stole time carefully to deal with his particular obsession by sending Watson on infuriating, lengthy errands. He respected the man too much to wank while thinking of him while he was actually in the apartment. That seemed a betrayal, some how, a violation of their friendship. Thus far, it had worked. He hadn’t jumped his flatmate or made unwanted advances, and their partnership continued.

Today, he had sent Watson on an errand on the other side of London to retrieve rare ingredients for a poisonous concoction he wished to test. He’d waited just enough time for Watson to board the tube and make it impossible for him to return and tell Sherlock where to shove it (oh, yes, please!), before requesting several other errands which would both add time to the trip and further infuriate his flatmate. He would berate Sherlock for being unthoughtful and selfish when he returned. He would be wrong on the first part, but entirely right on the second. Sherlock put much thought into these trips, but his motives were entirely selfish, though not in the ways John suspected.

He’d bought himself between two and two-and-a-half hours of time… long enough for him to reach a blissful release, clean up, hide the pheromones released from arousal and sex, and appear to be unmoving since John had left. 

_Oh, and do pick up dinner. Thai. Something spicy. SH_

 

_I hate Thai._

 

_Boring. SH_

 

After the irritations of the day, he would not be getting Thai. John would return with curry or vindaloo, instead, which was precisely what Sherlock actually wanted… but he knew their relationship hinged on John being able to get revenge for who and what Sherlock was in small ways, so he fed him small victories.

The errands and dinner settled, Sherlock rose from his desk and retreated to his bedroom, robe billowing like a lightweight version of his beloved Belstaff. The fantasy had already begun playing his mind.

They had just barely survived this time, but they had survived. They had run halfway across London to make it in time to stop the murderer, hearts pumping, blood surging through their veins. They were still riding the adrenaline high when they entered their flat and shut the door. John had made some inane joke, and Sherlock had scoffed and turned to tell the man he was an idiot, when their eyes met. _Pupils widened, lips parted, breathing shallow. Arousal?_ Sherlock deduced, even in his fantasies. He reached subtly for Watson’s wrist, fingers dancing lightly over the skin as he took in his flatmate’s pulse. _Elevated._

They closed the gap between them and met in a bruising kiss driven by pent up desire, tongues invading and possessing, teeth nibbling. He pushed John’s coat from his shoulders and it hit the wooden floor with a soft thud. It was immediately followed by John’s jumper and undershirt - why did the man wear so many layers?

John’s smaller frame collided with his, erections pressed together demandingly. A soft moan escaped him.

In reality, he had made it halfway down the hall, and he was leaning heavily against it, his palm pressed against the outside of his pajama bottoms to provide the pressure indicated by his fantasy. He rubbed slowly, gently, and a breathless moan really did escape him.

In both his mind and reality, the door to his bedroom clicked shut and he fell heavily against it. He imagined John’s hands exploring him, the sure, steady hands of the doctor-soldier providing just the right pressure as Sherlock bent to kiss him, letting his own hands explore the smaller man’s body. He squeezed John’s firm arse, lifting the man slightly into their rough kiss. John’s hand slipped between them and squeezed Sherlock deftly, calling forth another moan.

The hand squeezing his long, hard shaft of cock was his own, but Sherlock was thoroughly immersed, now, all sense of reality and fantasy had been blurred.

They were slowly making their way to his bed, and Sherlock was walking backward as John attempted to lead him. His robe hit the floor at the same time as his Belstaff in his fantasy. His shirt was next. There was a pause in how he undressed in reality, as his normally sure and nimble fingers stumbled on John’s belt buckle in his mind. But soon, the buckle was free, John’s pants were hitting the floor and his own were joining them shortly thereafter. Shoes and socks were kicked off hastily, and soon they were falling into bed, a tangle of limbs.

As Sherlock pressed himself into his bed, he closed his eyes, more than ready to be firmly entrenched in the depths of his fantasy. His own fingers ghosted over his skin lightly as John’s kisses lightly brushed against him. The kisses settled in the hollow of his neck, became more fervent licks against his pulse, and then there were teeth, starting lightly and then getting harder. Eventually John was biting and sucking savagely, causing Sherlock to gasp and writhe in pleasure. His hands carded through his flatmate’s hair, tugging and pulling him closer. His cock throbbed with pleasure as he rubbed against John’s thigh.

He let go of his dick in reality as fantasy John began kissing his way down his chest. Warm breath hit his nipples, and now John was paying the same attention to the hardened nubs and he’d been paying to Sherlock’s long, bared neck. His teeth and lips teased them with gentle bites and light sucking, alternating with flicks of an expert tongue.

Sherlock’s fingers were adept at providing him pleasure and his brain assigned that quality to John’s mouth. As he twisted and flicked and tugged his nipples, the specter of John did the same in his mind, flitting from nipple to nipple with such expert accuracy that Sherlock was nearly dizzy with pleasure.

Although Sherlock couldn’t find his release without his cock being touched, he could feel himself dragging on painfully slowly toward orgasm. It was building deep inside of him and every nerve in his body was firing in anticipation. His prick was jumping in expectation, oozing pre-cum in an attempt to ready itself for penetration. He was so hard his glans had been pushed free of his foreskin with no ceremony needed. He was so ready for whatever came next.

His brain replaced the boring mechanics of reaching into the bedside table, retrieving lube, and slicking up his own hand with visions of Dr. John Hamish Watson, kissing his way down his stomach, his clear blue eyes locking with Sherlock’s stormy gray-blue which were cloudy with desire. Watson’s pupils were almost as wide as with desire as they had been with fear when he’d thrown his arms around Moriarty.

Sherlock’s heart pounded in his chest at the memory.

Instead of his own lubricated finger working its way from the base of his cock to glans and around, it was John’s tongue, sliding expertly up and around. When John pushed his tongue into his slit to taste his pre-cum, Sherlock nearly lost it. The fact it was his own thumb mimicking the action made no difference. He was all into this fantasy.

John moaned at the taste of him, and his tongue began to swirl around his head, spinning and pushing in expertly. It was all Sherlock could do to prevent himself from pushing his way into John’s gorgeous mouth. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any more, John swallowed him nearly whole in one fell swoop. He could feel the head of his dick pressed against the back of John’s throat, could feel his flatmate struggling to breathe through his nose. _Holy fuck, John,_ Sherlock thought, no _said_.

He squeezed his cock, causing a shudder to go through himself. This is where reality-fantasy became difficult. It would be easy to shatter the illusion, to bring the entire fantasy world crashing around him, but he did his best to maintain it. The hand tangled in John’s hair was actually tangled in his bed sheet, as he stroked his too hard cock expertly with one hand. His rhythm was fast and hard, and he twisted in a way John’s mouth couldn’t actually twist. His thumb worked his head every few strokes, swirling the leaking pre-cum into the lube and adding to the lubrication.

In his fantasy, John Watson was doing dizzying things with his tongue as Sherlock fucked his mouth. It swirled in impossible patterns, touching here, there, everywhere… teasing his glans, tracing the throbbing veins pulsing in his length, swirling around the base. The fantasy was so intense, Sherlock could almost feel John’s tongue actually doing these things to him.

He was starting to moan softly, but Sherlock was vocal and knew he had to keep quiet. In his fantasy, the moans were wrenched from him into the air, encouraging Watson that much further, but in reality he bit his lower lip hard, his breathing hitching in an attempt to stifle his moans so he would not alert Mrs. Hudson. The last thing he needed was his landlady walking in on him thoroughly abusing himself.

The tension was building in his body, starting in his curling toes, heels digging into the mattress. At that sign, Watson pulled his hand from his hair, and pinned it to the mattress. Watson’s hand moved from Sherlock’s wrist to his hip, encouraging his sharp movements; his other free hand moved to Sherlock’s bollocks, squeezing them, working them, encouraging him toward his release.

His breath was coming ragged, his legs tightening, in unison with his balls. He entire body was pulling taut with his impending release. It grew thick and burning in the base of his cock, tension so high he could barely breathe with it. His eyes were closed tight, he was close, so close… he was going… he going to…

_Not yet!_ John’s voice was so clear in his mind that Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, confused and worried for half a moment that John had managed to sneak back into their flat unnoticed and had walked in on him. His heart beat wildly out of control and he struggled to breathe. His hand had frozen around his cock and he crashed back out of his orgasm, letting his body collapse, shaking against his bed.

That was normally the culmination of his fantasy, the heightening crescendo which left him sated, though exhausted. He was already sweaty, spent, and aching all over with the need for release. But his twisted psyche apparently had new and more thorough fantasies to provide him.

He slipped back into his mind palace easily, just in time to see fantasy!John had reached into his bedside table and retrieved his bottle of lube. He slicked up his fingers while eying Sherlock lustfully. “I’m going to make you cum so hard you see stars,” John stated simply. Sherlock trembled with excitement.

_Oh. This was new._

In real life, he slicked up his left hand and awkwardly began to work a finger into himself. There was no easy position to do this from, but Sherlock was going to do the best he could. It had been a long time since anyone had pleasured him this way (including himself), and he was determined not to waste the fantasy. Next time, he would be prepared with a toy, if necessary.

John took his time, working first one finger, and then another into Sherlock, teasing open the muscles, pushing and pulling slowly until Sherlock shuddered and opened to his advances. Sherlock thought he might die with pleasure with John’s fingers curled and pressed against his prostate.

“Ungh,” Sherlock’s voice echoed in his mind and in his room, but thankfully it was soft enough to likely go unnoticed. The shudder which rocked him was unmistakable, and his cock became impossibly harder.

John blessed him with his mouth then, and Sherlock was torn between pushing back into the fingers and up into his mouth. He planted his feet flat on his mattress and rocked his hips, eyes closed and biting his lip to hold back deep moans of pleasure. In his fantasy, the moans escaped him as low and deep rumblings of strings of words that barely resembled words, “fuckyesohGodfuckmeohfuckyesJohnfuckJohnfuckdontstoppleasedontstop.”

John’s fingers were as rough as his mouth was gentle, probing, stretching, stroking, over and over and over again. His tongue still worked those miracles, driving Sherlock mad with the intensity of his ministrations. Wave after wave of sensation crashed into him and over him and through him, and Sherlock lost track of how long he was riding them, undulating his hips wantonly into John’s mouth and back against his fingers.

In reality, it didn’t take long with the battering of his prostate for Sherlock to begin to crescendo dangerously toward the edge again. His body was pulled even taunter than before, every muscle aching, begging for release. His toes and feet ached, his calves ached, his thighs ached. His back and shoulders had pulled in a high arch off the bed. Even his ass muscles were quivering with tautness. He was silently praying that fantasy!John allowed him to crash toward release this time. His legs and arms shook with the intensity of his building release, his balls ached with a combined pain/pleasure that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt. Every nerve in his body was alive with pleasure so glorious it hurt.

His body was threatening to be pulled apart with desire, to burn up with heat and pleasure and pain and John-fucking-Watson.

The sparks started deep in his spine in the fire the was burning brighter than the core of the sun, and they began exploding behind his eyes without warning. Small, tiny explosions fired at first, and then suddenly an onslaught of sensation. Sherlock normally knew precisely when his orgasm was coming, but this ripped through him without warning; he went from an ebb of suspended pleasure, a moment in time when everything was perfect, to his body being torn asunder with spasms and explosions of multiple nerve synapses firing all at once. There was no stopping it this time. And he definitely saw stars. Hundreds of thousands of stars all entering supernova at once.

His orgasm ripped through him. Muscles he’d forgotten he’d had spasming. Even his own fingers were clenching inside of him, drawing out his pleasure even more. In his fantasy, he had been reduced to one long continuous moan of “nnnnnnnnnnnnn”, certainly loud enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear, well before his flatmate’s name was wrenched from him in a loud, echoing scream.

In reality, though his orgasm ripped through him with the same force, he had managed to keep quiet by biting his lower lip so hard it was bleeding. The moan was the same, though much softer, and as the stars exploded behind his eyes and his body started shuddering uncontrollably he did not stop himself from gasping out “John!”

Sherlock came to what he hoped was a moment later, but may have been an hour or more, his own fingers still buried inside himself and twitching slightly. He believed he lost consciousness… or maybe he’d just slept the sleep of the dead. He ached, every fibre of his being ached. He shifted slightly to look at the clock on his bedside table. He still had plenty of time before John returned to the flat, but not much. He was thoroughly spent, muscles still spasming as the aftershocks of his orgasm still worked through him. He was sweaty, the room was humid with the heat he’d built up, and it frankly reeked of cum and sweat and lube and satiation.

The intense orgasm was still wreaking havoc on his system as he stumbled from bed and opened the window to air out his room. He was absolutely covered in thick streams of cum and his next stop while fighting his trembling legs to procure a flannel and acquire cold water to clean up with. He stumbled into the loo, and cleaned up as quickly as possible while gripping the edge of the porcelain sink. Once done, he fought to regulate his pulse and stared at his reflection long enough to will his pupils from their dilated state. He made the bed, pulled on his pajamas and robe, and barely collapsed back in his desk chair with his laptop open just as he heard Watson bounding up the stairs.

His legs were still shaking, his lip still slightly bloodied. He had not been able to burn incense or cook up noxious chemicals to help hide the scent, and Sherlock could only hope that Watson had been predictable and purchased Indian rather than Thai. The strong smell of curry and jasmine rice would help hide the lingering smells of arousal. His intense orgasm was still rolling through his body occasionally, but he tried to lock it away deep into his mind palace as Watson threw open the door to their shared flat.

“Sherlock, I brought the things you asked for, and I picked up curry like you wanted,” John stated, knowing that this would pull Sherlock from his mind palace to call him an idiot and berate him for picking up the wrong dinner. Sherlock did not move, did not answer, because he was unsure he could speak without giving away his desire. He sat still, fingers steepled as he pushed the intensity of his orgasm and fantasy down deep. John could tell he was forcing himself to breathe regularly, and he seemed… different. What it was, the doctor couldn’t place. John quirked an eyebrow, “everything okay?” he asked softly.

The departure from the normal script was worrying. Sherlock inhaled deeply, willed his voice not to be deeper than usual and to be steady so as not to give away the desire still coursing through him. “What? Of course. You brought back curry when I asked for Thai. Boring!” he declared, a smile turning up the corner of his lips. That had been a successful endeavor, a good cover for the turmoil that was still rocking his brain and body.

“Prat,” John replied simply. “Well, I’m not serving you. Come get it.”

_Bloody hell._ There was no way he could stand. The shaking of his legs would be cause for concern and could possibly give him away. So instead he feigned irritation. “Too busy to eat anyway.” John sighed heavily, playing the part of put-upon doctor well, but a few moments later a plate appeared by his side and Sherlock smiled up at John in thanks.

“You’re not even going to use the things I picked up are you?” he asked irritably. “You selfish prig,” John grumbled, not expecting a response. He retreated back to the kitchen and a moment later John settled into his chair, and opened a novel, eating his own curry between turning pages. His flat mate appeared to have no deductions concerning Sherlock’s state, and Sherlock breathed an inward sigh of relief.

Next time his errands would need to take longer, as his obsession with John was growing in intensity, his fantasy lengthening itself in measure. This could be dangerous. A dangerous game, indeed.


	2. Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their run-in with the woman has left both Sherlock and John Watson rattled. Watson was inexplicably jealous and driven by rage. Sherlock was thoroughly teased and taunted. The experience leads to confessions, revelations, and... something more.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Brief mentions of a tryst with Molly Hooper, mentions of M/F, and Multi partner as well.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “About you being a virgin, Sherlock. Are you a virgin?”
> 
> Sherlock sighed heavily and snapped the book shut, this time not bothering to mark his place and turned his gray-blue eyes on Watson. _Palms on knees, body leaning in slightly, no hint of mockery in voice._ It seemed Watson’s interest was genuine. _Intriguing._ “Not entirely,” he offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene which takes place between Sherlock "winning" against Irene and Mycroft telling John (falsely) Irene had been murdered. Sherlock has not yet had to save her.
> 
> Hopefully, this is the last "plot bunny" I need to chase down so I can get back to my NaNoWriMo novel. I will be back to finish it after NaNo is over!

The Woman had been particularly vexing, for both Sherlock and John. Sherlock, for one, had not been prepared for someone like Irene Adler to be attracted to him, perhaps even in love with him. John had not expected someone to be able to so thoroughly arouse feelings of jealousy and possessiveness for Sherlock in him. But walking in on her naked form straddling Sherlock had sent him into a near rage, and knowing that she'd hit him, abused him, drugged him, and left him there unprotected had caused him to nearly lose himself in darkness, especially when he thought about how confusing it must be for Sherlock - a _virgin_ \- to have experienced those things.

Of equally perplexing and confusing note, was how John could not prevent himself from glancing sideways at a naked Sherlock wrapped in nothing more than a bed sheet, sitting inside the palace as if he belonged there in all his glory. John had retreated into himself, wondering about the planes of Sherlock’s chest, the tautness of his stomach… precisely how long and how thick and which way his dick curved. And when Mycroft had let the sheet drop, the curve of Sherlock’s ass had peaked tantalizingly in view, and John had to force himself to keep his eyes on the back of his friend’s head.

Thankfully, Sherlock had gotten dressed relatively quickly.

Eventually, when the case was solved, Irene was set free, and Sherlock had saved his brother’s clandestine operations, the jealousy which had been creeping into him and tainting his reactions were gone. Irene Adler was gone, and they could settle back into normality. Something not tainted by those bizarre and confusing feelings he’d been feeling for his flatmate. The embarrassment he’d felt at Irene declaring he was in love with Sherlock at every opportunity had eventually faded.

Truth be known, Dr. John Hamish ‘Not Gay!’ Watson, was ‘not straight’ either. He was flexible, perhaps even bisexual, if he’d wanted to place a label on himself. But he didn’t. For him, sex was sex, and it was entirely separate from romance and love. Watson had no desire to romance a man or be in love with a man, but he’d fuck one. Particularly in the heat of the desert, when they’d both barely survived, and their hearts were hammering in their chance, and they just needed, no wanted, to make sure they were both still alive. Just not Sherlock. Never Sherlock. Sherlock was more than just a quick anonymous fuck; he was a friend. Someone he trusted and cared for and admired greatly, and that was precisely as far as it could ever go.

Until The Woman.

John had been attempting to write up the case for his blog and failing miserably. Irene Adler was too scandalous, too risque. Sherlock was still too obsessed, and he wasn’t sure he should lay bare the detective’s feelings like that. In addition, he had to be careful about how much he wrote, because state secrets were involved; too much ambiguity made the story difficult to follow, but his ability to name names and use legitimate facts was severely hampered. After three days of writing and rewriting and deleting every passage which devolved into something sounding a breadth’s away from erotica, John gave up.

He settled his mind, instead, on simply recording conversations for future reference- a diary of sorts. You never knew when some minuscule detail of their lives would become suddenly relevant again. He had gotten to the point where Mycroft had flippantly hinted at Sherlock’s virginity when he paused. He had to know, he didn’t want to know, but some part of him had to know. He turned from the laptop and studied Sherlock’s profile. Handsome, almost pretty. He had a mop full of curls, and high cheekbones that could cut you with their severity. Watson cleared his throat. Sherlock didn’t move. Watson cleared his throat again.

“John, perhaps you would be better served getting a glass of water or a cuppa rather than staring at me,” Sherlock rumbled in his baritone.

“I was trying to get your attention, prat,” John seethed. He knew that stating the obvious would irritate his flatmate, and that was precisely why he did it. Prodding at Sherlock was more rewarding than one could ever imagine. It usually elicited a response when sincere conversation could not.

“Hmmm… presumably,” Sherlock stated. He took his time finishing the paragraph he’d been reading before closing the book. His finger held the place lightly. “Whatever could be so demanding I needed to give you my full attention, Watson?” Truth be known, Sherlock was irritated not by Watson interrupting him, but merely by his presence. He hadn’t left the flat in three whole days, and he was getting desperate for a wank. His mind palace had been cooking up a new series of fantasies involving both Watson and Adler… with him, with each other, all three of them together. There was enough source material for a lifetime in their few interactions and Sherlock wanted time to explore them.

“Is what Mycroft said true?” John asked without clarification. Sherlock was good, but he wasn’t psychic, and since he hadn’t been paying attention at all to John’s presence he had no idea what John was speaking of. His eyes flitted to the computer screen, but it was too far away for him to read what John was writing.

“Difficult to deduce without knowing precisely that to which you are referring, but I’ll give you a sweeping generalization of ‘probably not’. My brother is unlikely to share anything of import in one hundred percent truth and is even less likely to share one hundred percent of his deductions unless it gives him an ability to gloat,” Sherlock stated. He opened his book to turn his attention back to it, believing his answer quite sufficient no matter the situation. He barely started reading before he heard John scoff in frustration.

“About you being a virgin, Sherlock. Are you a virgin?”

Sherlock sighed heavily and snapped the book shut, this time not bothering to mark his place and turned his gray-blue eyes on Watson. _Palms on knees, body leaning in slightly, no hint of mockery in voice._ It seemed Watson’s interest was genuine. _Intriguing._ “Not entirely,” he offered.

“Not entirely?” John asked with a laugh. “What is that supposed to mean? You either are or you aren’t.”

“Oh please, John, don’t be so pedantic,” Sherlock berated. “I’m not entirely inexperienced with sexual matters, as Mycroft would believe. My brother’s sentimentality - which he proclaims to not have - equates a sexual relationship with a romantic one. I’ve never been in a romantic one, ergo he concludes I am an untainted virgin. In reality, I have had a wide variety of sexual partners and participated in a variety of sexual activities. Therefore, not a virgin. However, I’ve never had sexual intercourse in which I have penetrated a partner, and therefore, somewhat still a virgin. Irene Adler fed into that belief because Moriarty fed it to her… intelligence obtained, no doubt, in some illicit way from my brother, himself.”

John blinked a couple of times and tried to let Sherlock’s answer sink into his brain. However, it led to so many more questions. “When… how… who?”

Sherlock sighed. He never expected to have to share his entire sexual history with his flatmate based on one off-hand remark from Mycroft. It was embarrassing and incredibly private and intimate. “Without giving the intimate details, John - again, I’ve had a variety of partners and experiences, and although Mycroft likes to pretend he knows every detail of my life, he does not. My earliest trysts began in Sixth Form, when Mycroft was a relatively low-level intelligence agent incapable of prying into every detail of my life. I’ve become used to avoiding his prying eyes since that time. Keep in mind there was a point in my life where I hid an entire drug habit from my brother… and when money ran dry, I often exchanged sexual favors for the next hit. Full-on-penetrative sex was worth the most and I would not indulge in that, but a hand job or blow job was worth a least a hit or two, and I traded them freely. I’ve also paid for sex when necessary.”

“Y-you’ve paid for sex?” John was flabbergasted. His worldview of Sherlock was shifting, and he was having difficulty wrapping his mind around it. Sherlock Holmes was speaking of sex openly and freely without derision or shame. This was not at all what he had imagined after his behavior with Adler. “Necessary? When would you find sex necessary?”

“I’m a sociopath, John, not a robot, contrary to popular belief. Sociopaths can become violent individuals if their base urges are not curbed. Many violent rapes and murders are perpetrated by individuals with similar psychological tendencies as myself. I will not deny my urges simply because I am incapable of a romantic connection that a partner would deem fulfilling,” Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

Watson needed tea. He busied himself making some without a word, and let what Sherlock had told him sink in. That gave a very amused Sherlock some time to go back to reading. He hadn’t expected a frank discussion of his sexual appetite to unnerve Watson so very thoroughly. This gave him some ammunition for a new fantasy.

When the tea was done, Watson handed a cup to Sherlock and took a seat across from him, abandoning the laptop for now. He sipped his tea as Sherlock ignored his. Without much preamble, he blurted out his next line of inquiry, “Have you… since I moved in?”

“No,” Sherlock replied absently. “I’ve become adept at fulfilling my own needs as of late.” He smirked a bit, remembering the number of orgasms he’d given himself with John’s name on his lips. If his flatmate ever found out, he was certain it would be over. He hid his amusement as well as he could by sipping his tea, which he’d been uninterested in just a moment before.

Unbidden, John felt his cock jump at that thought, and a flush crept up his neck to his face. The brief mental image of Sherlock lying in bed, hand around his cock, was enough to get him going. This was very not good. He buried the thought deep down and pursed his lips to prevent any more questions from escaping. A single sip of tea later proved his efforts unsuccessful. “Anyone I know?”

Sherlock looked up from his book again and half shrugged. “A few. Molly Hooper for one,” he stated simply. It was a truth, but a hidden one and Sherlock told him mostly to gauge his reaction. They’d been intimate only once, and it was apparently, enough to fuel Molly’s crush. Sherlock had not been aware at the time how she felt, and if he had been, he certainly wouldn’t have indulged. But nevertheless it happened, and it resulted in a rather awkward scene at the Christmas party just this year.

John nearly spit out his tea. “You had _sex_ with _Molly Hooper_?” he practically shrieked.

Holmes could not prevent himself from laughing deeply then. The shock and horror on Watson’s face had been worth divulging that little secret. “Not precisely sex, John. It was long before I deduced her feelings for me this Christmas, and possibly long before she had them. It was before you and I had met even. One night after I’d solved a case, I was coming down from an adrenaline high, she noticed my erection and gave me a hand job. I returned the favor by tongue fucking her into ecstasy while she perched on the edge of her desk.”

John’s tea was abandoned now, his hand shaking too badly with this new, profound information. He set it on his side table, staring at Sherlock as if he’d suddenly grown a second head. He tried not to think about the fact Sherlock’s deep baritone had just said dirty, dirty things like erection, hand job, and tongue fucking. His heart was hammering in his chest and there was a roar in his ears. It was suddenly very hot in their flat, and he was half-hard with the mental image of Sherlock going down on someone. Anyone.

But this was _Molly Hooper_. How could he ever look at her desk in the morgue the same way again?

He struggled to control his thoughts and his body’s responses. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know more or if he wanted to stop asking questions. He was torn between jealousy and desire, arousal and disgust. If Holmes were lying to him, he’d be very, very angry, but it seemed there were no lies in his confessions. Truth be told, they were too wild to have been made up.

_Oh._

Sherlock would had to have been an idiot not to see the way John’s hand was shaking when he managed to set down his tea. He watched John shift uncomfortably in his chair, and lean back, hands gripping the arms until his knuckles turned white. His pupils were wide, he was breathing deep. He was on the edge of control. Control of what, Sherlock wasn’t sure but he hoped it was desire rather than anger. He raised an eyebrow, “anything else you’d like to know?”

_No!_ “Have all your partners been female?” What? Why the hell had he asked that? John didn’t want to know more. In fact, he was fine not knowing. He shouldn’t know more. Couldn’t know more.

“No,” Sherlock answered, echoing his own mental sentiment from moments before. “In a world of vast experience and possibilities to limit oneself to one gender seems… _boring_ and _unimaginative_. I wanted to experiment to determine if gender and sexual identity changed how one had sex. The answer is both yes and no. Ultimately, physiology be damned, sex is the same and yet, entirely different with each partner. Man, woman, transgender, gender queer, somewhere in between… to pleasure and be pleasured is all anyone with a sexual appetite wants - within certain boundaries.”

John licked his lips, an automatic response, Sherlock noted. His flatmate was being very much affected by thinking of Sherlock having sex, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Sherlock was drinking in every detail of an aroused John Watson. It was so very like what he’d imagined, but the details were crisper. John's eyes shown brightly, and because he was fighting it, his entire body was tense.

“Did you and Irene…” John asked. His brain betrayed him and his jealousy and he silently cursed himself. Past lovers of Sherlock’s didn’t bother him. Sherlock could have shagged half of England up until they’d met, and that would be fine. But if he’d had sex with Irene Adler, John would be driven into a rage. He wasn’t sure if she’d been texting Sherlock in the week since the case had been resolved, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

“No. When would we have?”

Watson pressed his lips together, not wanting or daring to answer. Sherlock seemed so cool about this all, so calm and collected. He couldn’t believe the consulting detective who fell apart over Moriarty and who became eager to impress Adler could handle speaking about his own sexuality in such calm and dulcet tones. Sherlock Holmes was a mystery. A man who buried his emotions so deep, you’d need mining equipment to excavate them. “You said… you’d never penetrated another person… but have you been…”

The question hung thick and Sherlock mentally finished it for him when John seemed to get hung up on the words. “Oh yes, John, I have,” he said darkly. His baritone had fallen half an octave and it rumbled deep in his chest. His own barely hidden desire was making itself known, and John needed to make a decision quickly concerning if this was what he wanted. Otherwise, Sherlock was going to have to break his own rules about not wanking when John was in the house. He’d have to shatter them into a million pieces like John had shattered him in his fantasies over and over again. “Years ago, I had a sexual relationship with a female-to-male transsexual who was a top. He could wield a strap-on in ways that utterly devastated me. He turned me into his wanton little bitch and wrecked me with desire over and over again. He left me raw and used and thoroughly sated.”

Remembering Toni in that way, as he hadn’t done in years, caused Sherlock to become half-hard almost instantly. He was sure desire was written on his features now, as the door in his mind palace had been blasted open by Watson’s line of questioning. His barely holding control had been chipped away at until it was utterly obliterated. He was seconds away from spilling everything about how his fantasies centered around Watson, now, about how he wanted Watson to do those things to him, about how he wanted Watson to thoroughly destroy him and then make him whole again. But he held back, waiting to see what Watson’s next move would be. _Check._  
   
John’s nostril’s flared and his face flushed. He was jealous of this person who had known Sherlock so thoroughly, but he was fighting that thought. It wasn’t a rage inducing jealousy. He didn’t want to hurt them the way he’d thought of hurting Irene. He just wanted to be them. He wanted to consume and be consumed by the object of his obsession, the man he couldn’t stop watching and admiring. He’d sworn to himself - not Sherlock, never Sherlock. The risk of loss was too great. Loss of himself, loss of Sherlock. Sherlock was a sociopath and that meant Watson would undoubtedly get hurt emotionally, if not physically. Because although it could be just sex with other men, it would not be just sex with Sherlock, and that realization terrified him.

The silence stretched on, the clock above the mantel ticked loudly. The seconds stretched into tortuous minutes, and finally, Sherlock broke the silence. “What about you, John ‘Not Gay!’ Watson? Only ever been with women?”

“No,” John admitted. “Not only with women. I don’t have relationships with men, but I never said I don’t have sex with men.” Sherlock laughed. He laughed at himself and he laughed at John. The sound of it broke John away from his jealousy and his desire. It rattled him back into a reality where Sherlock found him amusing, not necessarily attractive. “What? What is it?” he asked, confused.

Sherlock’s hands covered his face as he laughed with abandon now, and it took a few moments to compose himself before he ran his hands through his hair. “So… you’re bi, not gay,” he declared simply.

“No. Yes. I just meant… I’m not gay… and especially not with you,” he said, and he immediately regretted the words.

The vulnerability in Sherlock was gone, the connection and the openness blinked out like a light being switched off. The mask was back up, and Sherlock reached for his tea. He sipped it with an air of detachment, picked up his book, and opened it to the page he’d been on. The desire that had been raging in his veins a moment before was shoved back down deep. “I see,” he said simply.

“Sherlock,” John whispered softly. “Sherlock, that’s not what I meant… Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock looked up from his book, eyes steely, to lock his eyes on Watson. His lips were pressed thinly together. He did not trust himself to speak. Desire had been replaced by anger. John Watson thought he was better than him. Too good for him. Him! Sherlock Holmes!

Watson moved forward in his chair. Their knees were millimeters from each other, almost touching. He locked his eyes with Sherlock’s knowing the man could detect the truth in the words he was about to say. “I meant that I could not have a sexual relationship with you, because it could not, would not be an actual relationship,” he said softly. “With men, it has always been sex, just sex. No more, no less. But with you, it would be different. Women have always been for love and sex. For tenderness. For protecting and caring for. For keeping safe. Sherlock, does that sound familiar?” he asked softly.

Sherlock could barely wrap his head around what Watson was telling him. Was he talking about emotions? Those were complicated, messy. Sherlock simply wanted sex. Sex with Watson was good… or it would be good. It would be great. He knew it. Emotions were inconsequential to that. Tenderness… _like the way he gently cleans your wounds and patches you up after a case_. Protecting… _like the way he tried to protect you from Moriarty by sacrificing himself instead_. Caring… _like the way he brought you back to your flat when you were drugged out of your mind by Adler, tucked you in, checked your vitals_. Keeping safe… _like the way he stopped your almost suicide by murdering a serial killing cabbie_.

_Tenderness. Protection. Care. Keeping Safe. Deduction: John Watson loves you. Adler proclaimed as much. She saw it before you._

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed aloud. He was… a massive and colossal fool. Sex he was good at. Sex he could do. If that were all it would be, another layer to their tenuous friendship, a way to relieve stress and tension after a case, a way to let their minds adjust to the idea they were alive, then fantastic. But for Watson, it would be more. Sherlock could not give him that. “Oh. I see.”

John nodded and looked away, his blue eyes a bit sad at the situation he’d found himself in. “I don’t think I realised how deeply I cared for you already until I walked in on a naked Irene Adler straddling you. I wanted to strangle her until her pretty little neck snapped for touching you. She was this vile, filthy thing that was defiling you… keep in mind, I thought you were a virgin at the time,” John clarified when Sherlock started to argue. “Up until that moment, I had convinced myself I admired you and regarded you as a friend. I had saved your life because you were a good man, not because I had a crush. I had followed you into darkness because you were brilliant and infuriating and you were doing good work, but Irene made me painfully aware that wasn’t the case.” He didn’t seem to be able to say the words, but perhaps it was because he hadn’t said them himself. He had fallen so quickly for Sherlock without ever meaning to. Maybe it was because he was so lonely, so cut off from the rest of the world after his discharge. Maybe it was because Sherlock burned so bright, so intense. Maybe it was all because of the danger and the adrenaline.

Sherlock settled back in his chair, sliding away from John almost imperceptibly so he would not think about the heat coming off his body. “Since you have been so honest, John, I will be honest with you. I desire you,” he said and John turned wide, questioning eyes toward Sherlock. “A man has needs,” he shrugged. “You’ve become the center of my fantasies and have been for some time. Without even knowing it, you’ve given me some of the best orgasms I’ve had in my life,” he inhaled sharply and soldiered on, cutting off Watson’s potential protests or questions. “And I will not be able to stop myself from thinking about sex with you, but I can and will continue to respect whatever boundaries you wish to have. I will refrain from tempting or teasing you. I will refrain from attempting to seduce you. I am… pleased… you have feelings for me, but I will not manipulate them to get what I desire sexually, and I will do my best not to hurt you if it is at all avoidable. I am sorry, John, I truly am. There can be no deeper, more profound torture for an ordinary person than to be in love with… someone like me.”

Sherlock’s apology hit like a tonne of bricks, and John found it hard to breathe. He slid back into his own chair and blinked back tears. Sherlock did care. In his own way. If he hadn’t, he would have manipulated John’s confession to get what he wanted. They would have shagged one another until they were raw and dizzy with passion. He would have allowed John to fall deeper and deeper in love until he lost himself. This… what Sherlock did… was as much an act of love as Watson’s steadfast care and admiration of the other man. Sherlock was protecting his feelings. Sherlock was keeping John safe from himself. He was caring for his friend in the only way he knew how. John nodded a bit, to show Sherlock he’d heard and understood.

John had an insane, almost uncontrollable desire to shower kisses on his flatmate, to throw himself at him, even though they’d both just decided that was the exact opposite of what needed to happen. “Sherlock,” John whispered softly before he could stop himself. “Can… can I kiss you… just once?”

Sherlock nodded and tried to hide his surprise. “If you’d like, John, but I hardly think that’s wise,” he stated.

“Don’t think right now,” John ordered. He closed the gap between them quickly and the smaller man crawled into Sherlock’s lap, straddling him nimbly. He moved so unlike the soldier with the psychosomatic limp who had appeared into Sherlock’s life. John was practically shaking with anticipation as he placed his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks, closed his eyes, and pulled the taller man in for a kiss.

Sherlock kept his eyes open, trying desperately to record the details of John’s face in intimacy. The way his eyelashes fluttered closed the moment before they kissed, the way his hands felt, the way his breath hitched. Details to be stored away and cataloged for further use later. His hands had been behaving, gripping the arms of the chairs as he let John take the lead. But the moment John’s tongue tentatively pried open his lips and flicked inside his mouth, Sherlock’s carefully constructed control broke. One hand flew to John’s back, the other tangled in his hair and pulled him closer, demanding more from the kiss.

John let out a soft moan that Sherlock swallowed like a dehydrated man swallowed water.

Their kiss became more fervent then, one blended into two and three and four. They were suspended in time, tongues fighting for dominance, teeth mashing, nibbling, biting. John’s hands were still firmly on Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock’s were roaming, stroking John’s strong back, his chest, his legs. He was trying to drink in as much of the doctor as possible, memorise the hard planes of his body.

Sherlock felt his erection growing, unbidden, and his heart hammered in his chest. Without meaning to, his hand settled on John’s arse and he pulled him closer. Their erections pressed together and the shock of it snapped Sherlock from his wild abandon and into sharp focus. His hand flew to John’s hip and he pushed the man away from him, breaking the connection between them roughly.

John whimpered, and Sherlock committed the sound to memory, filing it away. Steel eyes locked with ice blue. Sherlock willed his heart rate to slow. John’s pupils were wide with desire, his breathing was ragged, his cock had already been half hard and pressed against Sherlock. All the physical signs were there. He wanted this. He wanted Sherlock. _Take, take, take,_ his base mind urged him, and he shoved the thought down, deep down, and locked it away. It was a dangerous thought, that one.

John leaned back in for a kiss and Sherlock forced himself to turn away. He had to do this. Now. Before it was too late. He cleared his throat and spoke in measured even tones meant to hide his desire. “John, listen very carefully. You need to leave, now, before I do something we both regret. In the past, I have sent you away, given you trivial errands to keep you occupied and out of the flat. I have carefully constructed the time and place in which I have given into my desire. I have not done that today. I was not prepared for this… or for your… confession. I need you to be the stronger man. I need you to get up and leave. I need you to stay gone for an hour or two. I need you to get a drink or go for a walk or… find someone else to keep you company for the night. Because if you kiss me again, I will not be able to stop. I will not be able to respect you. I will hurt your feelings so deeply I will leave scars, as I have done to so many others and John… I cannot bear to do that to you.”

That seemed to break the spell, and Sherlock was immensely grateful. John inhaled sharply, and finally, finally dropped his steady hands ( _fingers thick, firm, warm, strong_ ) from Sherlock’s cheeks. The smaller man slid from Sherlock’s lap wordlessly and crossed to the door. He grabbed the coat from the hook and gave Sherlock one long, lingering look of desire. For a moment, Sherlock believed Watson was going to cross the distance between him, heart be damned and throw himself into Sherlock fully, but thankfully, Dr. John Watson squared his shoulders and became Captain John Watson, the pinnacle of control. The door shut wordlessly after him a moment later, and Sherlock waited until he heard the exterior door slam shut before he gave in to his desire.

He did not bother to leave the chair by the fireplace, he simply pushed his pajamas from his hips and gripped his cock tightly. In his fantasy, John had not left. Instead, he’d come back, climbed into Sherlock’s lap and sunk onto his dick. John Watson was riding him with wild abandon and moans and gasps filled their flat. There was no time for carefully constructed fantasies, no need for well-written scripts or elaborate well thought-out plots. Instead, this was raw, animal desire, and Sherlock didn’t even question the incongruity when a moment later, he was fucking fantasy!John into the wall, the bricks digging into the other man’s back. Each of his strokes was hard and deep, leaving John gasping and arching in pleasure. In the next moment, Irene Adler was behind him, a strap-on shoved deep inside him and she was using him as roughly as he was using John. Each of Irene’s thrusts pounded into his prostate, pushed him deeper into John who was practically screaming in ecstasy at being so thoroughly used. Irene’s moans mingled with their own, her breasts pressed flush against his back as she used her leverage to drive deep into the man who was taller than her. The fantasy was disjointed, nonsensical, and quite frankly ridiculous, but it was also incredibly hot.

Sherlock came mere minutes after John left their flat, his orgasm fast and unexpected. It hadn’t rocked him to the core, but it did take him some time to move again, to force his hand from his softening cock and to pull up his pajamas. Clean up took longer than usual, too, as his frantic movements had not been well contained and his seed had landed wildly across their sitting room. That was John’s fault. He had teased the consulting detective almost past the point of control, and when he’d finally given in, Sherlock did not think clearly. He barely thought at all.

Knowing Watson would not want to speak on his return, Sherlock had retreated to his bed to read and think, after clean up was complete. They were no longer friends, Sherlock was certain of it. But they were not lovers and they were not enemies, either. John Watson was now more than just an obsession and an object of desire. They were something more - something with no name - but something more.


	3. The Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Baskerville, John talks to Sherlock about some issues that need to be addressed.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “Sherlock, we need to talk,” he stated simply.
> 
> Sherlock did not respond, did not move or flinch or acknowledge that Watson had spoken. That was okay, Dr. John Watson was patient. He sipped his tea and listened to the music, letting it wash over him. As the last note died on the air, Sherlock laid his bow on the music stand and leaned slightly forward to place the violin in its case. It was a sign he was going to entertain John. “No, Watson, you need to talk. I’m perfectly content not talking today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have abandoned my original writing for NaNoWriMo for this fic. I hope my muse is happy. I've written almost seven chapters to this so far, about 20,000 words in three days. It's insanity. But I can't stop. There's been some minor edits to Chapter 1 and 2 to make them more British English compliant (nowhere near perfect, I am American, after all), but nothing which changes the meaning. This chapter is less smutty and more emotional.
> 
> The payoff is the next chapter is basically all smut.
> 
> But then we have to wade through the darkness of Reichenbach Fall, and seasons 3 and 4. So sorry.

Baskerville had been easier to write up than John would ever admit. Usually, he had to be careful not to reveal too much, and any of their cases which tied so closely into government secrets had to be cleared by Mycroft, but this wasn’t government doing. This was one rogue man, and though Baskerville’s projects were secret, telling people they worked on everything from a cure to a common cold and had accidentally created a glow-in-the-dark rabbit was safe enough. Even the hallucinogen, being tested and released into an area was scandalous, but not enough to cause any real outrage.

He’d left out the bit about him no longer fighting when people assumed he and Sherlock were a couple, because others could so clearly see the love written on Watson’s face. He left out how Sherlock had tried to help him pull by hooking him up with Henry’s psychiatrist. He left out how he had embarrassingly, horribly, failed at seducing the woman, even though it wasn’t entirely his own fault. Damn, Frankland.

But mostly, he left out how Sherlock had hurt him, had used him, had manipulated him. Oh, him being the center of the experiment in the labs was crucial to the case. Sherlock’s descent into madness was also key. Those were embarrassing, but not so much so they needed to be left out. However, that scathing declaration of “I don’t have friends,” was never mentioned. It hurt too much to type and Watson still wasn’t completely over it.

Contrary to Sherlock’s belief, Watson wasn’t dumb. He knew Sherlock had been subtly using Watson’s feelings for him to gain an upper hand. His pleas for Irene Adler’s phone was a good example of that. John could have gotten into serious trouble for that, although Mycroft would indulge his little brother. All the secrets had been backed up on government hard drives and the phone had been wiped clean even before it was placed into storage. The physical phone was of no consequence. But if Mycroft had wanted, he could have swept John away into some facility for treasonists and thrown away the key. John had been unable to say no, even though he knew Sherlock having the phone was dangerous. Even though it hurt for it to be there.

And for his part, Sherlock had known John wouldn’t deny him. Couldn’t deny him. Love was a funny and bizarre little emotion.

John snapped out of his reverie and found his finger was hovering over the mouse, the pointer firmly squared on the “post” button. He had just received the all-clear from Mycroft. Sherlock was playing a tune he recognised but did not know the name of on the violin. Was it Mozart? Maybe. John was terrible with matching songs to artists, even worse when it came to classical music. He clicked “post” and sighed heavily. His tea had gone cold.

Rather than reheat the tea, he poured out the last bit and made another. He stood for a moment in the doorway to the kitchen, holding the warm mug, watching Sherlock play. His back was board straight, fingers moving deftly with years of practice. Sherlock conveyed such a broad depth of emotion in his playing. Was it mimicry? Had he heard another performance with the same nuances? Or was it more? Was Sherlock incapable of feeling emotions or did he choose to bury them so deep he couldn’t feel? Was his lack of understanding a choice or a defect? Did he choose not to see or did he miss the data because it was just noise to him? Watson wasn’t sure, but he also wasn’t sure he wanted to change it. It made his life difficult, but it was _Sherlock_. It was who he was, and Watson loved him in spite of (or maybe because of) it.

“Sherlock, we need to talk,” he stated simply.

Sherlock did not respond, did not move or flinch or acknowledge that Watson had spoken. That was okay, Dr. John Watson was patient. He sipped his tea and listened to the music, letting it wash over him. As the last note died on the air, Sherlock laid his bow on the music stand and leaned slightly forward to place the violin in its case. It was a sign he was going to entertain John. “No, Watson, _you_ need to talk. I’m perfectly content not talking today.”

Since Sherlock had stopped smoking (on John’s request, no less), he had become focused on other ways to fill his time. Thankfully, he was still riding the high of Baskerville, but soon, he would become bored with replaying the details of the case, so he would move to experiments and trolling for new cases and solving cold cases and eventually, he would delve into depression, assuming nothing presented itself before that point.

John had sent word to Lestrade to send them something, anything, as soon as possible.

In spite of his protest, Sherlock crossed to his chair and threw himself in it, long limbs splayed impossibly. Sherlock wasn’t a large man, but he was a long one, and the chair he’d fallen in love with and decided was his own wasn’t quite large enough to contain him. He crossed his legs and looked up at John expectantly, waiting for him to start.

“Baskerville,” John said simply.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What about it, John?” he snapped impatiently. John was pressing his buttons, and he was almost sure it was on purpose. His irritability without nicotine had lessened, but he was still on edge, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. He’d tried to find something else to soothe the impulse, but there was very little John would find acceptable. Caffeine helped. Music helped. Cases helped. Sex helped. He hadn’t had actual sex, and there was only so much masturbation he could take.

John took a drink of his tea and squared his shoulders, slipping from Doctor Watson to Captain Watson in just a moment. Unbidden, the memory of John pulling rank at Baskerville assaulted Sherlock and reminded him of how much he wanted John to pull rank on him. No. Not now. Interrupting a serious talk to send John on an errand would not be good. Even if he so desperately wanted to do just that.

Now that John knew the errands were Sherlock’s way of coping with his attraction, he grumbled less about them. He was more likely to wordlessly disappear as requested and sometimes gave Sherlock extra time of his own volition. Sometimes John went out on his own, and Sherlock took advantage of the time gifted to him… other times he didn’t notice. He should probably get better about noticing. John was trying, at least.

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace to catch the end of John’s statement, “… that hurt, Sherlock.”

What hurt? What had he done? What had he said? When? Think. Think. He couldn’t recall the last few seconds (minutes?) of what John had said. His hyper-focus on his alone time and John’s acquiescence to it had successfully erased everything around him. What to do? What to do? “I’m sorry for that,” he said simply. There… an appropriate response, right? Is that what John wanted? Is that what he’d needed to hear? His eyes searched John’s face for his reaction.

The blonde’s jaw tensed, lips pressed thinly together. Watson was on to him. John cleared his throat, sipped his tea, looked away. Barely concealed anger, but concealed. Ever patient, ever understanding, Dr. Watson. “You weren’t listening, were you, Sherlock?”

A further lie would compound the issue, cause more injury. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Ah… no. Sorry. I was thinking about how you pulled rank in Baskerville,” he admitted. He’d wanted desperately to tell John how sexy he’d found that, had wanted to tell him all about the fantasies it elicited. But he’d promised he wouldn’t tease him or attempt to seduce him, and for the most part, Sherlock was a man of his word.

John sighed and closed the short distance from the kitchen to his chair, setting his mug on his side table as he sat on the chair. “I said, that what you said, about not having friends… it hurt me.”

It was Sherlock’s time to sigh now and roll his eyes. “I explained that John. I don’t have friends, I have one. A friend. You. You accepted my apology, and we’ve moved on. It’s not my fault you didn’t catch the nuance…”

“No. Stop,” John shook his head firmly. It was an order. An Order. Sherlock’s ears perked up, his mind fully engaged. His nerve endings tingled. Well, that was _interesting_. “You have to stop that. I am _not_ dumb, Sherlock. I’m not as brilliant as you or Mycroft, but I’m not dumb. I _do_ actually have a genius-level IQ, and I know a lot about things you have no clue about.”

“I know,” Sherlock conceded. He pushed his desire down. Now was the time for serious adult talk. Not _adult_ talk. John’s statement was a statement of fact, but it didn’t mean Sherlock would be able to stop pointing out that although John was a genius, he was nowhere on Sherlock’s level. He was smart, but Sherlock was smarter.

“I’m going to teach you about one of those things, Sherlock. I’m going to teach you about emotions. You have to learn how to… handle my feelings for you.”

The _or else_ hung in the air, unspoken, but Sherlock could sense it. It was the logical deduction. John Watson was holding out on the hope he could teach Sherlock how to love or at least how to approximate love. He did not want to lose John, as he’d found he’d become very attached to him. He liked having him around. He liked fantasizing about him. He liked knowing there was someone who would do anything for him. He liked his companionship. “Yes,” Sherlock said simply and with a nod.

“Ordinary people don’t pick up on nuance that way. There is no difference between friends and friend,” John said after a long pause. “I heard the word, but I felt your tone. You were angry, Sherlock… disgusted by the idea of attachment. You were lashing out because of your own uncertainty… I think you meant to hurt me. In that moment, you resented me… resented our friendship. In that moment, I was lumped into the word friends.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, John. Your deduction is faulty because your underlying premise is false.”

John sighed, and leaned back in the chair. He knew it would take time, but Sherlock was bright, and he would eventually catch on. “You can’t argue with my feelings, Sherlock. They won’t go away simply because they aren’t logical. I did not _deduce_ anything. I _felt_ it. Was I wrong about your meaning? Yes. But me being wrong doesn’t take the pain away, Sherlock. It just… doesn’t.”

Sherlock was listening, but not comprehending. He wasn’t even sure what to ask to make his understanding clear. John was wrong about what Sherlock meant… but he was still upset at Sherlock? Why? Shouldn’t he be upset at himself? He was the one who misunderstood. It was his own logic that was faulty.

John could see the panic in Sherlock’s eyes as he tried to figure out what John was saying. He was slipping back into his mind palace, trying to suss out how emotions worked and failing. John cleared his throat and said simply, “Sherlock?” Sherlock’s blue eyes came into sharp focus on John, and John was glad he’d been able to call him back easily. “Think of all of your words and actions as bullets. They have the potential to be completely inert and to pose no threat. They’re simply blanks in the magazine, fired into the world at a random target, but not hitting anything. They’ll hurt no one. But if the wrong bullet - like a hollow point - is hurled at the wrong target - like the human heart - it can rip it to shreds and cause irreparable damage. In Baskerville, you fired a gun… and I stepped in the way.”

Something like comprehension dawned in Sherlock. Bullet wounds. They take time to heal and some never do. But how could he ever possibly know which of his words and actions would have the most impact? How could he ever know if someone would step in the way of his trajectory? If this were the case, how could he ever… possibly… hope to not hurt John? Something like panic was overtaking him because he saw no way out. No way for this to possibly work. Sherlock was incapable of knowing what would hurt someone because he could not be hurt. “I… see,” he said softly because John was looking at him expectantly. He did see, now, but he didn’t see how to prevent it. He also didn’t see how he could ever deduce what not to say or what not to do.

“These types of misunderstandings happen between everyone,” John said softly. He could see the panic threatening to overflow from Sherlock and that had not been his intention. “Human beings all have the capacity to misunderstand one another’s meanings and to unintentionally hurt one another. I can forgive these, with time. It’s the other things that will be the biggest problem.”

“What _things_?” Sherlock asked. He was relieved to know that John wouldn’t continue to be upset over what he’d said. This appeared to be a very minor bullet hole, then, one that would, perhaps, heal easily and without leaving a scar. Small caliber, then. It was Watson’s next statement that made him worried. What other things? What else had he possibly done?

“You’ve been using my feelings to get your way, Sherlock, and you said you wouldn’t.”

Sherlock’s face contorted into an expression John wasn’t used to seeing. Confusion. Sherlock was completely lost. He was mentally sorting through the last few months, trying to determine when he’d manipulated Watson in the way the man was claiming. Nothing. He was drawing a blank. He couldn’t remember intentionally doing that and it was worrisome. Sherlock liked to be in control… except when he didn’t. “When?” he asked after a moment.

“When you asked for _her_ phone,” John stated crossing his arms over his chest. He had expected Sherlock to realise this, and the fact the consulting detective didn’t was a cause for concern. Maybe John had been wrong about him. Maybe he couldn’t actually learn to be somewhat human.

“No,” Sherlock replied quickly. He shook his head firmly. John would not put that on him. “I asked, you provided.”

“You shouldn’t have asked, Sherlock.” Sherlock inhaled sharply, a thousand arguments coming to mind, but John held up his hand, and Sherlock complied by not speaking. “I could have gotten into serious trouble for giving you that phone, but you didn’t care. You also knew I wouldn’t- couldn’t- deny you, because of how I care for you. I don’t want to see you hurt, and not seeing Irene again, not having something to remember her by… would have hurt you. So you asked anyway, knowing I would break the law to give you what you wanted.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you would do it. I deduced… predicted… suspected you might, but I didn’t know for certain. Was it such an unreasonable request to make? Is it one someone who was not me wouldn’t have made?” Sherlock really was perplexed. The request had been one driven of bloody sentiment, a more human act than he was normally driven to. He knew, of course, Irene was still alive, and that he might, someday see her again. He knew Watson did not know. But his request… didn’t seem so outlandish as to warrant him being chastised.

John ran a hand through his hair and took a sip of his almost forgotten tea. He’d been watching Sherlock carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. There was only confusion there. John realised, then, it was a genuine request. One born of sentiment… perhaps even feeling… and he felt a bit guilty for having chastised Sherlock. The consulting detective hadn’t been trying to manipulate him, then. He had expected John not to give in, he had expected him to hold strong to his morals. It was John’s own emotions for Sherlock which had led him astray, not Sherlock himself. Sherlock didn’t ask just to see if John would do it, to determine how much power he held over the other man. Sherlock had asked because he genuinely wanted the reminder. Well… it was something, then. “No… I think… if I were you, I would have done the same,” John admitted. “So… I supposed it wasn’t a manipulation, then. I just… gave into you too easily.”

Sherlock nodded. John seemed a bit disappointed in himself and Sherlock wasn’t happy to see that. He would have to be careful about controlling his own sentiment from now on, so as to not cause John further injury. He rose without warning and crossed to the kitchen; John had left the electric kettle on, and Sherlock used the already hot water to make himself tea.

“The labs,” John said suddenly. “I didn’t appreciate being used that way.”

What was this? A therapy session? Sherlock wondered in irritation. He had already explained, apologized, been let off the hook for this. They had worked this out ages ago, in Baskerville. He felt as if they were rehashing old events. He leaned against the counter, waiting for the tea to steep, a mental countdown of the time going in his head. “You were safe, John.”

“I know.”

“I was there watching, John.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t have let it go too far. There were no lasting physiological or psychological impacts to a one-time dosage, I was proof of that. You were in a safe, controlled environment, and if anything went wrong, I was prepared to come save you, John. In fact, I did.”

“I know.”

“So why are you upset?” Sherlock asked, perplexed. If John accepted all of these things as true, then what could the problem possibly be? Remove tea bag, pour in cream and sugar. Stir.

“Most normal people wouldn’t put someone they cared for through something like that, Sherlock. Terror. It would never cross the mind of someone with ordinary psychology to do that to someone they care about,” John pushed. It was the first time either of them had said anything about Sherlock’s feelings aloud, and John wondered if he’d made a mistake.

The scrape of the spoon against the mug stopped suddenly, as Sherlock stopped stirring. He cleared his throat. Swallowed hard. “Do you think I care for you, John?” The question was soft, almost inaudible. Emotions, sentiment, feelings. He didn’t - couldn’t - understand them, but he did know John Watson was important to him. If John thought that meant he cared, well… that’s what John thought.

John inhaled sharply. He hadn’t meant to let Sherlock know what he suspected or, rather, what he understood. It had simply slipped out. He wasn’t sure he was ready to confront Sherlock’s feelings, to help him come to terms with the realisation he actually was capable of feeling something. Sherlock was convinced he was incapable of emotion, which wasn’t strictly true. John had seen that multiple times in the last few months. He closed his eyes, cleared his throat and replied softly. “Yes.”

“Good,” the reply was simple and succinct. Sherlock wasn’t upset John had realised he was caring for him in the only way he knew how; in fact, he was relieved. He may not be able to return John’s love in full, but he could, at least, care for him. Keep him safe. Provide him with companionship. And… when the other wasn’t around, he could fantasise about the physical pleasure they could derive from one another.

The scrape of the spoon against ceramic filled the air again and only stopped when the clang of the metal spoon against the stainless steel of their kitchen sink filled the air. Sherlock sipped his tea, watching John from behind. “You like fear… danger… the adrenaline rush. It’s what keeps you here.”

 _Oh_. It was John’s turn to realise he was a bloody idiot. He couldn’t help himself. He started laughing. It was a _gift_. Yes, Sherlock needed to experiment. He needed to understand the effect of the drug on a brain that was not his own. He needed to see the results in a controlled environment. But he’d picked Watson, not because of the man’s convenience, but because he knew John Watson craved excitement, was obsessed with danger and intrigue and was as addicted to adrenaline as others were addicted to drugs.

“John?” Sherlock asked. He was confused by John’s laughter and he crossed to observe his friend closely. What could he have possibly said to trigger this?

“It was a gift, wasn’t it?” John asked after he regained his composure.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, not really wanting to answer. He’d realised after the fact that Watson would not see his gesture for what it was and had endeavored to keep his intentions hidden. The statement he’d made had been meant as a simple statement of fact; it seemed, though, however slow his flatmate was at deductions, he’d finally come to the inevitable one. “Of sorts,” Sherlock admitted after a while. He sat in his chair and took a sip of the tea he’d made.

“Just like Henry’s therapist,” John stated slowly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes.” Tea. The tea was good. He took another sip, blatantly avoiding John’s gaze. The therapist had been his first attempt at apologizing. It had gone terribly. He couldn’t have predicted it going that way. After all, John was attractive, witty (to most), and compassionate. He usually was very good at seduction.

“Well… thank you, I suppose,” Watson said after a long time. “But… I don’t need help finding women… or men.”

The consulting detective wanted to argue. Watson hadn’t had sex in a while, and he’d stopped looking for it, really, when he’d told Sherlock how he felt. That wasn’t really a good thing. It would eventually make things complicated. Messy. Because he would eventually want to have sex with Sherlock, and that would lead to more feelings. Sherlock raised a shoulder in a half shrug, “okay.”

They sat in silence for a while, both sipping tea quietly. Sherlock had slipped into his mind palace, and John had begun reading a novel. Sherlock was unsure how much time had passed, when he was suddenly drawn from his thoughts by the sound of John chuckling softly. “Gifts!” he exclaimed with amusement.


	4. Captain Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes advantage of some downtime to indulge in a fantasy.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “Haven’t pulled rank in ages,” John replied without betraying any emotion.
> 
> “Enjoy it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.
> 
> “Oh yeah,” John stated dismissively. There was something in his tone, though… something almost not there… which hinted that perhaps it wasn’t just the thrill of being in charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised chapter of smut before we enter the realm of angst and feelings. The next few chapters are rough, emotionally, but there is a payoff!

It had been weeks since their last significant case and in order to prevent himself from falling into a destructive path, Sherlock had taken to leaving the flat for less challenging ones. Lestrade had called on him a couple of times for cases which should have been simple enough a child could have solved them, and try as hard as he might, Sherlock was excruciatingly bored. In measure, his experiments had become more dangerous, more exciting, more… disgusting. John indulged him. He sighed, he rolled his eyes, he complained, he yelled, but he indulged.

And thank God for that, or Sherlock might have taken up a new drug habit just for entertainment.

Watson had also picked up more hours at the clinic, simply to keep himself entertained. He normally refrained from doing so, afraid that Sherlock would call him away, and the clinic would be scrambling for coverage. This time, however, they were already scrambling for coverage. One of the other physicians had a sudden appendectomy and was out for recovery, while another had been away on holiday in Chile, China, or Connecticut… some place that started with a C. It was inconsequential, so Sherlock had deleted the information immediately.

His experiments were coming to a close and he’d been carefully noting their results in the event he wanted to blog about them in the future. He was reluctant to start anything new because something big was brewing. He could sense it, but the pattern was thus far eluding him.

What that meant was that a very bored Holmes was alone in a very empty, quiet flat for hours on end, with nothing but his mind palace to keep him company. That meant new fantasies with new plots and new circumstances had been coming for some time. But there was one incident, in particular, that was his new obsession. Baskerville.

_“Ever heard of a spot check? Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” John said quickly, withdrawing his military ID from his pocket. Sherlock was inwardly relieved, as he felt like the entire subterfuge might come crashing down around them based on this one Corporal and Sherlock’s seeming inability to persuade him._

_“Sir,” the corporal had replied with a salute as he snapped to attention. A government official he would buck against, but military personnel? He wouldn’t dream of it. Sherlock was pleased John garnered such respect. John returned the salute with the ease of a man who was used to being saluted, who was used to orders being followed._

_“Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you both,” the Corporal argued._

_“I’m afraid we won’t have time,” Sherlock replied quickly._

_“We’ll need the full tour. Why wait? Carry on. That’s an order, Corporal,” John added, just as quickly, not giving the Corporal the ability to argue._

_“Yes, sir!” Corporal Lyons exclaimed, immediately reacting to John’s commands as if he were used to it. No, he was used to it. It was easy, in the military, to follow orders without thinking. It’s what was expected._

_Sherlock caught his smirk before it fully formed, as the realization dawned John had enjoyed giving orders, almost as much as Sherlock had enjoyed watching the exchange. It made Sherlock wonder what it would be like to be ordered by John, to be dominated and controlled by him. He reigned in his thoughts as he swiped Mycroft’s keycard. The game was on._

_“Nice touch,” he said as a quick compliment, and he meant it. It was a nice touch to the subterfuge and a nice touch for his fantasies._

_“Haven’t pulled rank in ages,” John replied without betraying any emotion._

_“Enjoy it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious._

_“Oh yeah,” John stated dismissively. There was something in his tone, though… something almost not there… which hinted that perhaps it wasn’t just the thrill of being in charge._

“Sherlock,” John called from the other side of his closed bedroom door. Sherlock was pulled from his memory and blinked against the morning light in his bedroom. He rolled over to look at his bedside clock. 8 am. Why was Watson awake at such an ungodly hour? “I made tea, and Mrs. Hudson brought up biscuits,” he stated. “I’m headed in for a shift at the clinic. It’s a short one today. I’ll bring home lunch, but for God’s sake eat something before I do.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and a few moments later John rewarded him by shuffling from his door to the door of their flat, and then down the stairs and on his way to the clinic. Sherlock waited before he texted John a reply to his request.

_I will. SH_

_Good._

He would eat something, because John requested, but not immediately. No… he turned his mind back to the memory of John Watson pulling rank, and the delicious tingle it caused in his body. John was shorter than him, yes, but who wasn’t? He was also stronger; something Sherlock had tested when he’d asked John to hit him before they entered the Woman’s home. He subconsciously rubbed the spot on his face that had split to Watson’s punch; at the time, he’d pushed down the mixed pain-pleasure and stored it for later. That… combined with the way John commanded the soldier at Baskerville…

_Delicious._

The fantasy started unbidden, John standing across his room watching him from afar. “Undress, Sherlock,” he said firmly. Sherlock was half-tempted to ignore the command to see precisely what John would do, but instead, he stood and turned to face John, peeling his shirt and pants off and tossing them aside without hesitation.

“Your turn,” Sherlock challenged.

John raised an eyebrow and ignored Sherlock as he crossed to him. “On your knees,” he commanded. Sherlock’s cock jumped a bit at the sound of John’s voice, and he did as he was told, falling to his knees before John. John was squeezing himself through his trousers, seeing Sherlock on his knees, eager and waiting was exciting, tantalizing. He unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock, but he didn’t undress just because Sherlock had asked for it. John pressed the head of his cock to Sherlock’s lip, and Sherlock could taste the salty slick of John’s pre-cum. Sherlock moaned deeply at the taste.

“Suck it,” John demanded, and Sherlock opened his mouth eagerly.

In the real world, Sherlock had undressed and stretched out on his bed, his cock was at full attention, but he was barely thinking of it, focusing instead on lightly rubbing his chest and abdomen as his mind palace fed him a fantasy.

John’s cock was thick and heavy on his tongue, and the doctor slid it into his mouth slowly. Sherlock couldn’t help himself as he moaned and closed his eyes, breathing through his nose as he took all of John into his mouth. John’s hand tangled in his hair and tugged gently as John began to fuck his mouth slowly. Sherlock let his tongue run along John’s cock, eagerly lapping at him between strokes. John moaned softly, “you look beautiful like that, sucking my cock.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it, he reached between his legs and started stroking his own dick, while he sucked with renewed vigor, hollowing his cheeks as John pulled out. With the suction and strokes of his tongue, John really couldn’t take much more and he pulled Sherlock’s hair harder and pulled his dick out of the detective’s mouth, smirking a bit. “That’s one way to shut you up, I’ll have to remember that next time you’re blabbing away on a case. Get on the bed, on your hands and knees.”

The illusion of the fantasy broke for a moment as Sherlock reached into his bedside table for the toy he’d acquired and his bottle of lube. He took his time preparing the toy, and himself, slicking up his arse and stretching it gently, and making sure the toy was ready to glide in easily. He knew where the fantasy was headed and wanted to be prepared.

Sherlock had complied with Watson’s order and was eagerly waiting for what Watson would do next. The man took his time, undressing slowly, and helping himself to the lube in Sherlock’s bedside table. It took everything he had for him not to tell Watson to bloody well hurry up already. John moved behind him, slicking himself up, and he pressed the head of his cock into Sherlock’s arse slowly, with tiny strokes. Sherlock felt the muscles relax around the head of John’s cock and he let out a small grunt. “Mmmm… like that, yeah?” John asked. He continued pushing in slowly until Sherlock felt his bollocks pressed against his arse. He moaned deeply…

He had managed to work his toy inside of himself rocking his hips slowly with John’s fantasy strokes as his mattress pushed the toy in further. He was breathing heavily, heart already pounding in his chest. Who knew the idea of Captain John Watson taking control would be such a thrill?

John had pushed him downward, a strong hand on his shoulder angling him down and yet pulling him back into his thrusts. He could feel John stretching him, filling him, taking him completely. He was a conduit for John’s own pleasure and he could feel John getting impossibly hard inside of him with each stroke. “Take it, Sherlock, take my hard dick,” John commanded.

His shoulders were being pinned by John’s weight on him, and Sherlock struggled to reach back to grab his own cock. He was stroking it in time to John’s rough thrusts. Each of John’s strokes pressed against his prostate causing him to gasp and moan in surprise.

The toy inside of him was too good, but he imagined it felt half as good as having John really inside of him would be. It provided a constant pressure against his prostate as his hips rocked while he fucked his own hand. It was enough to make him moan softly and to cause his breath to come quicker, but it was the thought of John using him for his own pleasure that already had Sherlock’s toes curling.

The feeling of the bed sheet was rough against his cheek, and he could hardly breathe. John was fucking him to death, or at least it felt like he might actually die from the pleasure. His own cock was impossibly hard, dripping pre-cum, he could feel his balls tightening, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of the tautness of John’s body, pulled up tight as he pounded into him from behind. John’s grip on his shoulder got tighter and with just a couple of more strokes John exploded inside of him crying out his name “Sherlock!”

With just a couple of strokes of his hand, Sherlock came, too, reveling in the feeling of John’s dick spasming inside of him, his moan of pleasure bordering a scream.

It took Sherlock a moment to realise the scream and the orgasm hadn’t just been fantasy. His orgasm had ripped through him with such force and urgency, he hadn’t noticed what was real and what was pretend, but his throat was certainly raw, which meant the scream had definitely been real… and all evidence (including the shaking muscles and the fact he was covered in cum) suggest the orgasm had been as well. Hudders would have heard that.

He glanced at the clock and sighed in relief. Just about now, his landlady was vacuuming with the music turned up on her headphones. By some stupid luck, he’d managed to have a screaming orgasm and not get caught.

But if he were going to keep fantasising about John H. Watson, he might have to invest in a gag.


	5. They Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Reichenbach Fall Angst. John informs Sherlock he's getting married and what, exactly, that means for them.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “I’m getting married, Sherlock.”
> 
> “I know, John,” Sherlock replied. He finished off the coffee and set the mug on his side table, turning ever so slightly to look at his friend. “I’ve known since I came back. You proposed. Mary said yes.”
> 
> “No, Sherlock. I almost proposed, Mary almost said yes,” John corrected. “I never got the chance to officially ask. You interrupted us.” Sherlock scanned through his memory, trying to recall what John was talking about, but he couldn’t quite place it. The blank look on Sherlock’s face told John everything he needed to know. Sherlock was still so self-obsessed he’d had no idea what he’d interrupted. “The night you came back. At the restaurant. I was literally in the middle of the sentence asking her to marry me when you brought that damned bottle of wine…”
> 
> “Oh,” Sherlock said softly. The candles, the wine… the restaurant itself… it suddenly made sense. John always had been a romantic, but a dinner with that price tag would have to be planned for, saved for… it would be something special. “Well, congratulations are in order, then…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have completed the story, just working through editing now. There are exactly 10 chapters (9 full chapters and a bonus scene/epilogue). More angst to follow, because... well... seasons 3 and 4.

His last show down with Moriarty was a dizzying stream of events, a slow sinking into hell he could burden no one else with. He felt like he was going mad, working to the inevitable conclusion, one that would prove to be devastating and disastrous. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were all in danger. There were only so many potential outcomes and only so many ways to avoid those outcomes. He and Mycroft had planned for every one.

His least favorite plan, Lazarus, hinged far too much on his ability to manipulate and utilise John Watson’s feelings for him. It was a last ditch plan, only to be executed if no other option remained. When Moriarty fired the gun and his brains exploded outward, Sherlock knew he was stuck. He had no other options.

With a shaking hand, he’d picked up the mobile and phoned John, saying what could be his last words to the man who’d he’d been obsessed with for years now, a man who’d loved him and cared for him deeply. He had promised John, he’d never manipulate him like this intentionally, if it could be helped, but it couldn’t be. In order for the world to believe Sherlock Holmes was dead, John Watson had to believe Sherlock Holmes was dead. John Watson had to shatter into a million pieces; he had to grieve the love of his life.

He directed John into position and ordered him to keep watching him. Observing him. The way he always did. It had been incredibly difficult to keep going with John looking at him so expectantly, knowing the slow realisation of what he was going to do was creeping into John’s consciousness. He lied, as well as he could, knowing John wouldn’t really believe him. In spite of himself, Sherlock had found his voice shaky and a tear had fallen. He wanted to take this back, to change the plan, to tell John he was going to still be alive, he was just going away for a bit. He couldn’t. He couldn’t because then John would die. Lestrade would die. Mrs. Hudson would die. And the opportunity to make them all safe by dismantling Moriarty’s network was the only thing that made this worth it. He had tried to tell him with one small deviation from the script, “It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.” He hoped John would get the message.

And just as everything moved into place and Sherlock jumped, he closed his eyes, his thoughts reaching out over the expanse to his best friend. _John, forgive me. I love you._ The impact of his thoughts hit him harder than landing on the air pad. In an instant, he was swept away into clandestine operations, and he watched from afar while John Watson crumbled. How could he have been such a massive idiot?

He almost broke. He almost begged to come home in just a few weeks, as Mycroft sent him pictures of John taken via CCTV. John was a man tortured, a hollow shell. He was existing, but not living. Then, the pictures stopped. Whether Mycroft sensed his resolve slipping or whether something had happened to John, Sherlock wasn’t sure.

He sought out Irene, then, in deep undercover where even Mycroft’s agents had not found her. He was looking for just a moment of comfort he thought he needed. After listening to his story, she did not provide comfort. Instead, she’d punished him for what he’d done to John, disciplined him in ways he couldn’t have disciplined himself. It helped.

He returned to his undercover work with renewed vigor, but it was slow work, tortuous work. Without warning, his brother began sending pictures of John again. He looked… better… whole again… and then the pictures stopped. Damn Mycroft for teasing him. The small encouragement was what Sherlock needed to finish his work.

Two years. The whole ordeal had taken two years, before he was finally, fully extracted and brought back. Moriarty’s network was, thankfully, destroyed. He hoped the vacancy was not filled by some other criminal mastermind, but if it were, it wouldn’t be one nearly as clever as Moriarty.

Sherlock had underestimated how thoroughly he’d managed to destroy John Watson, as well.

He’d truly expected John would wait, that he’d wholeheartedly welcome him back into his life with open arms and an open heart. He was wrong. He’d had to fight to get John back, to make him think he was going to die before he forgave Sherlock. Or at least, mostly forgiven him.

For his part, Dr. John Hamish Watson had gone through hell and back. He and Sherlock had just been settling in to an agreement of sorts. John had been helping him learn… ever slowly… how to express and interpret emotion. He still got it wrong on occasion, but he was learning, and John was close, he believed, to being comfortable with actually telling Sherlock he loved him. The words still had not come. But then Moriarty had shown up again, and Sherlock was pulled headlong into a dangerous game, and the only solution… Sherlock killed himself.

Deep down, John had known that Moriarty had manipulated Sherlock into it, and that Sherlock would not have done it without good reason, particularly while spinning lies to John, but that did not prevent the shock and horror which came crashing down around John. At first, he was in disbelief Sherlock was actually gone. He kept expecting him to show up, round the corner, wearing some ridiculous disguise and a bad accent. He expected Mycroft to drive up and sweep him away to some clandestine location where Sherlock was in hiding. He held onto a false hope provided by the words, “it’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick,” like a drowning man held onto air. He eventually stopped holding on.

Meanwhile, he couldn’t take the way people looked at him, pitied him. The way strangers felt the need to comment on his loss; the way they claimed to miss Sherlock when they’d only ever called him a freak before; the way they all tried to help him. So he’d done what he’d done after Afghanistan and retreated into himself- locked himself away where no one could find him.

He’d tried seeing Ella again, but his therapist was too intuitive. She kept insisting John had a lot of things to say to Sherlock that he’d never said; there were, of course, a lot of things but primarily the three words were the most important, and he couldn’t bring himself to say them to Sherlock with anyone as proxy. _I love you_ , a promise of devotion unspoken and unfulfilled.

Then he got angry. Angry with Sherlock, angry at himself. There had been another way out, but Sherlock had not been clever enough to find it. He had taken the easy way out, leaving John to pick up the pieces. John was angry at himself for not having been there to protect Sherlock. He’d been easily drawn off with a ruse concerning Mrs. Hudson. He’d shouted at Sherlock. He’d been cruel. Instead of being caring, tender… instead of protecting him… he’d left him alone when he needed him the most. _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._ He replayed the scenarios over and over in his head, trying to figure out what he should have, could have, done differently.

But the worst was yet to come. Depression. Deep, dark depression. John remembered the least from this time period. There was drinking, but not so much as for him to be considered alcoholic. He forgot to eat - didn’t care to. Sleep was short and light and random, except when it was deep and all encompassing. He knew he must have done things, routine things, like shop and laundry, but he didn’t remember them. There were no more rows with pin and chip machines, just a silent acceptance they were one more irritation in life he had to put up with. That living was an irritation he had to put up with. Entire days and weeks and months went by, with no clear memory of what day it was. But, still, he got up, went to work, came home. The work was boring, routine, nothing exciting or worthwhile. There was no danger… no Sherlock.

Suddenly, there was Mary. She saved his life. She found him, obliterated into pieces, and she helped put him back together again, tiny splintered pieces of ceramic held together by the super glue of her patience and kindness. She asked after him, fed him, listened to hours of stories and anecdotes about Sherlock and their work. He begged her not to read the blog, so that he could tell her about his friend instead. She held him when he cried, overcome with grief, and then he began to accept, this was his new life. Without Sherlock. But there was Mary. Beautiful, steadfast Mary. Slowly, Watson became whole… ordinary and boring, but whole.

Until Sherlock returned.

John was swept into a terrorist plot, nearly died (twice!), and became the subject of news reports within the span of a few days. The adrenaline, the intrigue, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping in his veins… he loved it. Every second of it.

Thankfully, Mary approved. She knew deep down this was what John Watson lived for. Trouble.

It had been a few weeks since the foiled terrorist attack, and they’d settled into something approximating routine. John helped on cases as frequently as he could between clinic duty. He also started up the blog again, chronicling their adventures. He waded through emails, searched papers, and, in short, did the things that Sherlock could not bring himself to do, but which were necessary to keep them afloat.

That meant he also picked up Sherlock’s shopping and his dry cleaning.

He’d actually swung by to do just those things on the way to 221B Baker Street from the clinic and as he ascended the stairs to their previously shared flat, John had his hands full. Sherlock was in the middle of playing violin, Bach he thought, though he could never really be sure. He let himself in, hung up the dry cleaning on the rack near the door for Sherlock to put away later, and busied himself with replacing the groceries. As the tune drew to a close, John cleared his throat to make sure Sherlock knew he was present. “Tea?” he asked.

“Coffee,” Sherlock replied, returning his violin back to the case. He spun on his heel and stopped abruptly, barely stopping himself from inhaling sharply. Dr. John Watson was in his kitchen, making coffee, putting up the shopping. He’d almost lost hope of ever seeing that again. He cleared his throat, “you picked up the dry cleaning.”

“Yes?” John replied raising an eyebrow, confusion on his face. In all the years John Watson had been picking up his dry cleaning, managing the shopping, and sometimes even cooking for him, Sherlock had not once noticed it or mentioned it at all. Sherlock threw himself into his chair as the coffee pot began percolating. “You noticed.”

“Yes,” he answered with a shrug. Sherlock wasn’t sure when he’d come to realise people (particularly John Watson) wanted you to pay attention to little details, not just when you were solving a case, but also in every day life. Instead of deleting inconsequential things immediately, he’d started mentioning them, like Molly’s engagement. It seemed to make people pleased. He wanted John to be pleased with him, rather than barely accepting.

John wordlessly made him coffee (two sugars) and handed him a mug. “You off tea?” his former flatmate asked as he sat in the chair across from Sherlock.

“No, but… I was undercover,” he explained after a moment. John always became distant when he talked about his time away, and Sherlock didn’t like mentioning it. He’d tried initially, to tell John the entire story, but it had resulted in him being punched and nearly strangled. They’d been kicked out of three restaurants. He took the beatings. He deserved them, and well, he was no stranger to physical pain. John Watson had barely broken the surface of what Sherlock had found he could endure. “Other countries are not as keen on tea… or it’s all shit. So… coffee.”

“I can still make a proper cuppa,” John replied, even though his eyes had gone dark. Well, at least he was still talking. Sometimes, when Sherlock mentioned anything of the past two years, he was given hours of silence in return. Sometimes John simply left.

“No doubt,” Sherlock stated. He was trying to stay present in the conversation, but the inane small talk between them was driving him completely mad. He was torn between retreating to his mind palace and staying there, just to enjoy John’s presence.

“Mary sends her regards,” John offered into the silence. Sherlock nodded noncommittally. Mary… now there was a sore spot. Mary Elizabeth Morstan. There was something not quite right about her, but Sherlock could not place his finger on it. _I think it’s a skip code._ How would a receptionist at Bart’s recognise a skip code? Was that why John chose her? Was she a woman of vast knowledge, someone who studied arcane and disused knowledge? Did she get her kicks by reading up on cryptography?

He hadn’t gone digging; in fact, he’d refused to do so, because it would upset John, yet there was something about her that made Sherlock’s highly honed skills tingle with anticipation. There was more to her. She was… almost too well put together. He kept his suspicions and deductions to himself. After all, she’d helped him save John’s life in more ways than one… and John seemed content with her. She was ordinary in ways that Sherlock was not. That was what John needed.

He’d become aware his left knee was aching, an injury from a rather hard jump from a second story window while he was in the Middle East tracking down Moriarty’s network. It had been a relatively minor injury, but occasionally, it stiffened and ached, and Sherlock wondered if this was what it meant to get old. He shifted slightly to relieve the pressure, his leg brushing accidentally against Watson’s.

John froze, stiffened in his chair, his entire body taut. He cleared his throat and stood abruptly, moving to the sofa to spread out the day’s papers. _Damn._ Casual touches like that used to mean nothing, a bit of intimacy and familiarity that were a part of daily life, not enough for John to go scurrying away. With John gone from his chair, Sherlock stretched his leg out fully, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. He’d rather have John close and deal with the physical ache than to have John retreat and deal with the emotional one.

Watson had opened a paper, but wasn’t reading. Sherlock could tell because his eyes weren’t moving and he hadn’t bothered to turn the page. Normally Watson quickly scanned the headlines, before settling on an article. This time he sat, staring at a page blankly. Finally, he sighed, folded the paper haphazardly and tossed it onto the coffee table. “I’m getting married, Sherlock.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock replied. He finished off the coffee and set the mug on his side table, turning ever so slightly to look at his friend. “I’ve known since I came back. You proposed. Mary said yes.”

“No, Sherlock. I almost proposed, Mary almost said yes,” John corrected. “I never got the chance to officially ask. You interrupted us.” Sherlock scanned through his memory, trying to recall what John was talking about, but he couldn’t quite place it. The blank look on Sherlock’s face told John everything he needed to know. Sherlock was still so self-obsessed he’d had no idea what he’d interrupted. “The night you came back. At the restaurant. I was literally in the middle of the sentence asking her to marry me when you brought that damned bottle of wine…”

“Oh,” Sherlock said softly. The candles, the wine… the restaurant itself… it suddenly made sense. John always had been a romantic, but a dinner with that price tag would have to be planned for, saved for… it would be something special. “Well, congratulations are in order, then…”

Watson held up a hand to interrupt Sherlock and pressed his lips together. He wasn’t quite sure how to proceed, but there were things that needed to be said. “Sherlock, I’m getting married. Mary and I will continue living together. I won’t be moving back in.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock replied softly. John had made it more than clear to him he had moved on and things wouldn’t be returning to the way they were.

“I can’t use all of my free time to take care of you. I will have other responsibilities.” John was trying to dig his point him, to make Sherlock understand that this was how things had to be.

“I know, John.” He seemed unable to say anything else. To do so would likely betray some sort of feeling, some sentimentality he did not want to address. He wished he could go back to a time before he had jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s… but that was an impossibility.

“Things will change. They will and they won’t,” John persisted.

“Logical fallacy, John. Either things will change or they won’t. It can’t be both ways. And the solution to this is: they will change. They already have,” Sherlock answered. Usually, a statement such as this would have been accompanied by Sherlock degrading John’s intelligence, pointing out how he was superior. This time, there was just a statement of facts. John was already upset with him, he didn’t want to make it worse.

John sighed. He was grateful for the reprieve from the attack on his intelligence, but he couldn’t help but think Sherlock still wasn’t getting what he was saying. “I’m still going to help with cases… and I’ll run errands when I can, but Mary will need me, too.”

“I know, John.” Sherlock was resigned to this being the only thing he could say which wouldn’t set John off more.

“You can’t forget to eat, Sherlock.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh. He rubbed a hand over his face and composed himself. “One does not survive two years of undercover work if one forgets to eat. I’ll be okay, John. I’m different.”

“So am I,” John stated after a long pause. He looked very much like he was going to start speaking and then stopped. He repeated the cycle one more time. He finally stood and crossed to the window, looking down into Baker Street. “Things like this aren’t easy for me.”

“No, they aren’t.”

He glanced back at Sherlock, cleared his throat, steeled his resolve. “Sherlock, just over two years ago, the man I was in love with phoned me up, told me everything I loved about him was a fraud, asked me to lie for him, and then made me serve as witness to his suicide.”

“John-” Sherlock whispered softly.

Whether John heard him and ignored it, or simply did not hear, Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he pressed onward. “I grieved so deeply, I lost myself. I grieved the loss of his companionship, his partnership, and yes… even his infuriating science experiments and his total disregard for our safety. In time, my pain faded. With Mary’s help, my pain faded. I love her profoundly for that. She saved me.” He turned to look at Sherlock, then, and blinked back tears. “I will never stop loving and caring for you, Sherlock, but it’s changed now. I can’t be in love with you. It hurts too much.”

John’s words were heavy. Sherlock had known this to be true, logically, but he hadn’t allowed himself to feel the words. Not until John had actually spoken them. Because of what he’d done, John’s love for him had diminished or changed in some way. It was not okay. It would never be okay. Sherlock was aware his hands were shaking, but he couldn’t let John see. He crossed them over his chest, hid them behind his arms. “I understand,” he stated, his voice breaking.

“Do you, Sherlock?” John asked with a sniffle. He had managed to push the tears down deep, but the sound of Sherlock’s voice threatened to break his resolve again. Sherlock was not the same man who’d stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s two years ago. John wasn’t sure who this was, but he was beginning to understand sentiment and emotion, he was beginning to allow himself to feel.

Sherlock cleared his throat nodded once. His voice was steady now. “You love and care for me, but are no longer in love with me, though I’m not sure what the difference is. Inconsequential nuance, I’m sure. Regardless, because of this you’ve chosen to proceed with your plans to wed Mary.” Sherlock desperately wished he had something to do with his hands that wouldn’t give away how much he was shaking. He kept them hidden. “Does she make you happy, John?”

“Yes,” John replied without hesitation.

“Good. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you… your happiness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are love!


	6. John's Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a new obsession: making sure John Watson is happy.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Sherlock still had his doubts about Mary, something tingling at the back of his brain, an intuition that something was not quite right. However, he had no firm evidence and nothing to tell John that wouldn’t sound like paranoia or jealousy or some odd combination thereof. So he’d pushed away his doubts and threw himself headlong into planning every minute detail of John’s wedding.
> 
> He was glad for that distraction.

The happiness of Captain John H. Watson, M.D. was of paramount importance to Sherlock Holmes. In fact, it was his newest obsession. Sherlock knew, once he’d returned from abroad, under no circumstances would John Watson be happy with him again… at least not with only him. To use John’s metaphor from years ago, when he’d jumped from the roof of Bart’s Hospital, he’d aimed right for the heart of John Watson… and not with a bullet, with a grenade.

John would forgive him for the deception, but he’d likely never forgive him for breaking his heart.

For that, John had Mary.

Sherlock still had his doubts about Mary, something tingling at the back of his brain, an intuition that something was not quite right. However, he had no firm evidence and nothing to tell John that wouldn’t sound like paranoia or jealousy or some odd combination thereof. So he’d pushed away his doubts and threw himself headlong into planning every minute detail of John’s wedding.

He was glad for that distraction.

As he watched them together, Sherlock became aware of what people used to see when they looked at him and John. John’s face had a way of lighting up when he looked at Mary. Without a doubt, he would follow her to hell and back, because she was the center of his world. He would do anything for her, even sample nine different cakes and choose between four different shades of purple he couldn’t distinguish between. His fingers lingered on hers if their hands brushed for a moment when he handed her something; he silently refilled her tea or brought her biscuits without her asking. He knew precisely what to order for her from every restaurant because he’d committed her favourites to memory. In sum, Mary Elizabeth Morstan had nothing to worry about ever again because John Hamish Watson had made her the object of his affection and his obsession; he would care for her without comment or complaint, faithfully, until he could do so no longer.

Sherlock missed that intimacy, that devotion.

He saw the same thing when he watched Mary with John. She smiled at John even when he wasn’t looking, her eyes followed him even when he wasn’t aware. She indulged his every whim, teased him mercilessly when necessary, let him lead or follow as he was content. She knew John craved excitement and adrenaline. She knew he adored working with Sherlock, that it fulfilled him. She knew, without a doubt, that for John Watson, she’d put up with anything; including a sociopathic best friend who could have, at one point, been a lover if things had gone differently.

And so, Sherlock thew himself headlong into his duties as Best Man, even doing more than was traditional, and filling in for the Maid of Honour as well. He helped with place settings and menus, decorations and venues; he found the DJ and composed their first dance himself. He’d even gone so far as to bribing Mary’s ex and the ringbearer, heading off disaster, to make sure the future Mr. and Mrs. Watson had the ceremony they had dreamed of.

Nothing was as difficult as writing his speech. It had taken him months to get it just right, to inject enough humour, as well as enough seriousness. His first draft had devolved into the many reasons why he loved John Watson and ended on a declaration that was, perhaps, a bit too truthful. His next had waffled too far into the formal, carrying none of the warmth and emotion he really had for his friend. Draft after draft, and yet still, the night before the wedding Sherlock was writing well into the wee hours, and thus, he’d had no time to rehearse. It would probably be obvious the next day.

He’d dressed at Baker Street, arriving at the venue with plenty of time to spare to help John prepare and to prevent him from having a nervous breakdown, if necessary. He found John in the offices of the church, steadfastly avoiding the bride’s dressing rooms, so he wouldn’t spoil the surprise and see his wife in the dress before the wedding day. It was supposed to be bad luck. Sherlock couldn’t stand the superstitions and traditions built around this infuriating ritual.

He found John, dressed in his slacks and an oxford, staring off into space, unmoving. If Sherlock had believed him capable, he would have thought John was visiting his mind palace. Sherlock cleared his throat and closed the door. “John, you should be getting ready,” he said.

“I should, yeah,” John agreed but he didn’t move. Instead he simply kept staring off into space.

Sherlock waited patiently for what felt like forever, but when John didn’t move or speak more, Sherlock pressed on, “What’s wrong?”

“What… what if this is the wrong thing to do? What if… I can’t make her happy? What if… what if I die on a case with you and leave her alone? Sherlock… what if this is a mistake?” John seemed so distraught that for a moment, Sherlock was overcome with worry for him, and he allowed his mind to wander down the path of uncertainty. He realized after only a few minutes, this path was destructive. If he could, perhaps, tap into every possible data stream and work out a balance of probabilities, he could - in theory - predict the future. Particularly when it came to people who’s habits and mannerisms he knew well. However, the process would be elaborate, exhausting, and would damn near push him to the edge of his sanity. The amount of effort it would take would far outweigh the benefits in most practical applications.

So he couldn’t ease John’s worries with predictions or deductions. No, at this moment, the only thing he could do to ensure John’s happiness was to help him through this minefield of unease. “Come on, John, if you don’t get into that tuxedo, you won’t get a chance to make her happy, because Mary will be furious with you, and though I’ve never witnessed it, I’d wager a guess the last thing anyone wants in their lives is for Mary Morstan to be furious with them.”

That seemed to snap John out of his fugue and he finally looked at Sherlock. Sherlock could practically feel John’s blue eyes sweep over him appreciatively. It had been a while since John had looked at him that way. The tux, then. John liked the tux. His friend stood and toed off his shoes, began to fumble with his belt buckle.

Sherlock turned his back to give John some privacy. Since his return, since he had realized John had moved on, Sherlock had managed to curb his physical obsession with John. It had been months since he’d indulged in his fantasies. He still loved him, more than he wanted to admit, but he did not… would not… satisfy himself the way he used to. It seemed disrespectful. John had made a choice, and Sherlock was trying to honour that choice in his own way.

Instead, he listened to the sounds of John getting dressed, the slide of high quality wool and linen and silk over skin. John did not normally dress so well, as he preferred more modest clothing. His salary as a retired Captain and a doctor (even the small sums he earned from advertising on his blog) would allow for more extravagant things, but John simply didn’t think that way. Vanity was not his vice.

“Sherlock, help,” John strangled out a few minutes later. “My hands are shaking too bad for me to button my shirt.”

“You’re a surgeon, John, an army surgeon and a crack shot,” Sherlock said as he spun on his heel, taking in the sight of John with his pants up but unbuckled. He could see the peak of John’s blue boxers between the front hem of his shirt, and thankfully, John was wearing an undershirt, because if not, Sherlock may have had to abandon him because he may not have been able to control himself with John’s bare chest exposed. John nodded, much too nervous to actually respond with words. Well, at least he knew he was being ridiculous, Sherlock thought, unable to stop a smirk. Sherlock crossed the few steps to his friend started at the base of the shirt, buttoning it far more slowly than he needed to, just so he could stay close. “John, you need to listen to me carefully. Mary Morstan loves you very much, so this can’t possibly be the wrong thing to do. You are not making a mistake and neither is she. None of us can - with one hundred percent certainty - know the future.”

He had managed to finish buttoning the top button then and was straightening John’s collar. His fingers brushed against John’s neck and he had to force his hands to still. John’s pulse was elevated, from nervousness, yes, but Sherlock’s mind was trying to force him to think of desire. He closed his eyes and pushed the thought down deep. When he spoke again, he was sure his voice was a little husky, but he believed it was subtle enough John wouldn’t pick up on it. “I am, however, certain of one thing, John,” he said as he picked up the bow tie. If John’s hands had been too unsteady to button his shirt, tying a bow tie was certainly out of the question. Many men would have had to concentrate on this task, and many more would have simply given up and donned a clip-on, but not Sherlock Holmes. He could do this in his sleep. “I have no doubt, none, that you will make Mary Morstan happy.” He pulled the bow to its completion and straightened it with the scrutiny of a perfectionist.

“I don’t even know why she said yes!” John protested. He had snapped out of it enough to tuck in his shirt and buckle his belt. He seemed to be able to manage his waistcoat, as well, but Sherlock double checked behind him, making sure it was even, comfortable, and everything was tucked in nice and neat. And if his inspection allowed him to run his hands over the hard planes of John’s chest and back and shoulders, well, that was just an added bonus.

Sherlock helped his friend into his coat and helped him pin the boutonniere in silence. It wasn’t taking concentration, but Sherlock did not trust the sound of his own voice. He was somewhere between tears and lust, wanting to cry because he knew John could never be his in the way he wanted, and wanting to say sod it and jump him right in that office turned dressing room. He stepped back, surveyed the scene before him. _Shoes. Hat. Pants. Shirt. Waistcoat. Jacket. Boutonniere. Perfection._

“She said yes, because only someone with extreme mental deficiencies - perhaps even a touch of insanity - could possibly say no to Doctor John Hamish Watson, Retired Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Now, we’ve got just enough time for a drink to help you steady your hands and steel your nerve,” he stated, reaching into his suit pocket for the flask he’d stashed there before he’d left the flat. He’d nicked some of Mrs. Hudson’s rum, but the woman likely wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, thank God!” Watson exclaimed as he reached for the flask Sherlock offered him.

“I promise you, John, both you and Mary shall be very happy. I will see to it.”


	7. The 7th Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John struggle through Mary's death and Eurus.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Slowly, John’s sobs subsided, and the shorter man shifted in Sherlock’s arms a bit. He cleared his throat. “Uhhh… Sherlock… you’re holding me,” he said, the first words he’d spoken in a long time.
> 
> “I am,” Sherlock agreed.
> 
> “But you don’t hold people,” John protested softly, his breath warm against Sherlock’s chest.
> 
> “Oh John,” he whispered into John’s blond (mostly silver, now) hair, “you aren’t _people_.”

The last few years had not been kind to the Baker Street boys. It had started with Sherlock’s faked suicide, but it had morphed into so much more.

When John had finally begun to heal from Sherlock’s betrayal, they’d immediately run head first into Mary’s. There were the cases, yes, to keep them distracted, the funny side adventures, and lighthearted events which made the way into the blog. Mary’s case was not one of those. It could never be one of those. Mary had shot Sherlock, nearly killed him, and then threatened him to keep him quiet, and John had to face a terrible betrayal from yet another person he loved dearly.

Nearly dying had been traumatic for Sherlock. He’d kept it together to stay alive, but he’d almost, almost given in to the blissful promise of death. Until he thought of John. John in danger. John in grief. John. John. John. He’d clawed his way back to life for his best friend. He never told him.

In the end, Sherlock had promised to keep them safe and John had believed that vow, put more weight on it than he’d even put on his wedding vows. He, ultimately, trusted Mary and he trusted Sherlock, and together they could keep one another safe; together they could get through anything. Although John had killed for him years earlier, John had never expected Sherlock to shout “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” and shoot Magnussen directly in the face - especially not to save Mary. John had not thought Sherlock would take things that far.

And for long, painful weeks, John thought he would loose Sherlock for good, either behind bars or with the death penalty. Throughout that, Mary kept him sane and stable. It turned out he was losing Sherlock to exile… but that was a much easier punishment to swallow than death or jail. With exile, there was a chance it could be rescinded.

And like a miracle, it was. Because of Moriarty… or rather, Moriarty’s ghost.

There were months where not much happened and they simply laid in wait for Moriarty. The consulting detective was sure there was more to Moriarty’s posthumous plans. So sure, he simply hadn’t seen a connection to Mary when busts of Margaret Thatcher were being destroyed. Why would he have? He thought they were done dealing with Mary’s past. On finding the flash drive, Sherlock had known precisely what to do. There were no secrets between he and John, now, and the first thing he did was tell John what he’d found and it’s implications.

Mary was not safe. He would keep her safe.

But he didn’t. In fact, everything had been fine, there were people on site to arrest Norbury, but Sherlock couldn’t just leave it alone. He poked and prodded and arrogantly goaded Norbury, as he so often did, and she tried to shoot him. Mary saved him. He watched her die in John’s arms.

He watched John shatter. Again.

And it was his fault. Again.

John wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t let him help with Rosie. He didn’t want anything to do with him, which hurt, but he respected that John would need time. Until he saw the video from Mary. Mary Watson had told him to do for John what John had done for him: go to hell and come back.

He laid the groundwork, set out a plan, some of it intricate enough he couldn’t remember it in his drugged state. And my God the drugs. So many drugs. Cocaine, morphine, heroine, oxy, vicodin, ecstasy, meth… was there weed? Peyote? He couldn’t remember, but Wiggins kept him going, until even he thought Sherlock had too much.

Thankfully Mary had been right. Knowing Sherlock had put himself in danger with Culverton Smith had drawn John out and to him. After he’d saved Sherlock’s life, John had been, unwilling, at first, to act as more than just a physician overseeing his recovery. But then John had finally told Sherlock what the problem was, after so many months. It wasn’t just that Mary had died. It was more than that. He was carrying the guilt of having considered cheating on her. It was just talking, just texting, but he’d wanted more. He’d wanted more with that random woman from the bus.

He’d wanted more with Sherlock, too, though he’d never allowed himself to think it or say it aloud. The grief and guilt and anger had come pouring out of John, then, in waves of tears, and for the first time in his adult life, Sherlock had moved, without hesitation, to hold someone - to hold John as he’d cried out his anguish.

“It’s okay,” he’d whispered.

“It’s not okay,” John had protested.

“No… but it is what it is,” Sherlock had agreed. He’d texted Molly to let her know they needed time. He let John cry, not cared what obligations they had or who was supposed to be coming to check on him. After some time, he moved the two of them to the sofa, and they fell onto it without John realizing. Sherlock wasn’t sure how long they’d laid there with John ugly crying into his chest, and Sherlock occasionally rubbing his back and making soft, soothing sounds to calm him. He tried not to think about John’s body against his or how _right_ this felt, because, after all, the man was mourning his wife.

Slowly, John’s sobs subsided, and the shorter man shifted in Sherlock’s arms a bit. He cleared his throat. “Uhhh… Sherlock… you’re holding me,” he said, the first words he’d spoken in a long time.

“I am,” Sherlock agreed.

“But you don’t hold people,” John protested softly, his breath warm against Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh John,” he whispered into John’s blond (mostly silver, now) hair, “you aren’t _people_.” He pressed a single, gentle and unassuming kiss to John’s forehead before the other man sat up and ran his hands over his face. In moments, John had texted Molly concerning Sherlock’s birthday and they were out the door for cake.

And then, there was Eurus. Sherlock could not dwell on the events of Sherrinford too deeply. He could not dwell on how he’d been made to sacrifice innocents, to hurt Molly, and how close he’d come to truly losing John. Eurus… a little sister he’d forgotten… because she’d murdered his best friend.

John had a difficult time wrapping his head around how deeply damaged Sherlock was - the events of his childhood may have made him a sociopath, but Eurus… Eurus was a psychopath. She operated with no sense of remorse, no humanity, but she did not even attempt to emulate it. Sherlock, no matter how cold and uncaring Sherlock had seemed, he’d never been that far gone. Even when he’d jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s, his ultimate goal had been to protect the ones he cared about. John talked about it with Ella, far more than he talked about his own issues. He pretended he was coming to terms with his own part in Sherrinford (after all, John’s morality resulted in the death of a man and his wife), but in reality, he wanted Ella to tell him Sherlock would be okay. She didn’t.

It would have felt more believable coming from someone else, because Sherlock’s snapped assurances of “I’m fine!” whenever John tried to bring it up weren’t believable.

He was a man tortured, physically and mentally, and he was tired. John could see it in the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he drank his tea and ate his breakfast. Sherlock had moved in with him, while the renovations to Baker Street were happening. The first time they’d returned, Sherlock had seemed okay, almost happy. He bounded from room to room, recovering the recoverable. They made a second pass through before meeting with engineers and designers to rebuild the flat. More of Sherlock’s things had survived than one would have thought, and John was packing up the kitchen while Sherlock was in sitting room.

There was a loud thud, the sound of something hitting the floor, and John found Sherlock sitting in the middle of the floor clutching a book. “Sherlock?” he’d asked softly, concern clear in his voice.

“I can’t do it anymore,” Sherlock replied quickly. “I don’t know how you do it!”

“Do what?” John asked as he crossed over to kneel next to Sherlock in the ash and dust.

“Feel,” he said simply. He was starting to hyperventilate, and John could only think of doing one thing to help. Holding him, just as Sherlock had held him just a few weeks before. He wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock, who in that moment seemed so much smaller than him (he’s not as tall as people think), and pulled him close, as his best friend began to babble. “God, John, the things I’ve done… to Lestrade… Mrs. Hudson… and Molly… and oh God, to you and Mary. All the little things, where I disregarded the feelings of a witness or a victim.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t do most of those things intentionally,” John whispered. “Intention is so very important.”

“But I still did them!” Sherlock said softly. He wasn’t crying, he hadn’t cried, couldn’t allow himself to, because once he started he probably couldn’t stop. “I’m in hell, John, hell! The darkest depths, the seventh circle, and I don’t think I’ll ever crawl out.”

John laughed, he couldn’t help himself. “You melodramatic fool. It’s okay… I’m here with you. We’ll make it through together. We just have to be soldiers now,” he whispered, placing a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head.


	8. An Easy, New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John managed to survive the darkness that was Mary's death and Sherrinford and have moved back to Baker Street after an extensive remodel. But where do they go from here?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Before Sherlock could move, he was ripped out of his mind palace by John's lips pressing against his, the shorter man's free hand tangling in his hair. John groaned softly, in the back of his throat, and Sherlock finally let go of his wrist, both hands finding their way to John's arse and pulling him closer. Their half-hard cocks pressed against one another eliciting a moan of excitement from both men.
> 
> John’s resolve had crumbled. _Never with Sherlock_ , had transformed to _Now! With Sherlock!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter is explicit! (You know, in case it wasn't clear from the summary...) Don't know how you would have made it this far without seeing the other explicit chapters, but I thought I'd give you a heads up in case it isn't your thing.

They had settled into an easy, new normal. The kind of normal one wouldn't expect from the world's only (sociopathic) consulting detective, his grieving widower best friend, and the best friend's toddler daughter; the kind of normal one wouldn't expect from a man with a psychopathic sister who killed his childhood best friend and attempted to kill his current best friend and a man with post-traumatic stress disorder who's now dead wife was one of the best freelance black ops agents in the history of the UK. You, know, the same two men who had been shot, stabbed, strapped to bombs, almost drowned, and had killed for each other. Those men did not know _normal_.

But John had been musing for most of the day during his shift at the clinic about how normal was precisely what they had become. Almost predictable. But not so predictable that Sherlock was bored.

He worked his shifts at the clinic. Sherlock consulted on cases remotely while watching Rosie, calling in back-up from Mrs. Hudson if he simply had to be present to solve a case. Molly was another of their steadfast babysitters, with Lestrade and even his own sister Harriet (who had been sober for six months after rehab) pitching in occasionally.

The hardest cases they still worked together, of course, but thankfully, nothing so treacherous they had almost died. Nothing in which their flat had exploded, they’d been poisoned, or someone had come back from the dead. There was still danger, of course, but it was the normal kind of danger - a gun, a knife… hell, after the last few years a bloke with hallucinogenic gas and a hound of hell would have been more normal.

And Sherlock had been _good_. Well, as good as Sherlock could be.

They had an explicit agreement which was paramount to John moving back in and renting out the flat he’d owned with Mary. No weapons. No experiments which were dangerous enough they could harm Rosie. Lestrade had offered up the police lab for anything Sherlock needed to test which could be a danger, and if that wasn’t suitable, Molly could be counted on to provide the morgue. The most important, however, was no drugs. None.

Sherlock had complied, for the most part, although there was the time Rosie had managed to find a knife when Sherlock had slipped into his mind palace. She had gone too quiet and it had taken Sherlock a moment to realize, but disaster had been eluded, and the fact it was a hunting knife stashed in a drawer rather than a kitchen knife didn't much matter to John. It could have been a kitchen knife - it could have happened to anyone - and a mischievous toddler getting into trouble was quite a bit different than Sherlock going into a cocaine or heroin fueled rage and shooting holes into their walls – because boredom!

John smiled to himself at the memory, fumbling with the keys only momentarily as he let himself into the front door of 221B Baker Street. It was quiet, almost too quiet, and he inhaled sharply as he took the first steps up to their flat. The second stair squeaked, as usual, and Mrs. Hudson appeared as if on command, holding a sleeping Rosie.

"John," she hissed, and he froze, taking in her tone and the fact she was watching Rosie when Sherlock was supposed to be... no, should have been upstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson? Wh-"

"I think he's in a right state, John. He called me up about 4 and asked me to watch Rosie for him. He was pale and shaking. I couldn't refuse, but John... I don't know what he's on about. There's been no clients, and I've not heard a peep from him for a few hours now."

John's blood froze. Could it be Moriarty? Eurus? Were they safe? He needed to get Rosie- and Mrs. Hudson- far from here. In that moment, John had never been happier that no one had yet inquired about the flat he'd purchased with Mary. "Take Rosie to my flat," he said quietly. "Just in case. At the very least, there may be yelling, and at the worst... it may not be safe for either of you."

Mrs. Hudson paled and nodded as John handed her the keys. "Thank you, as always, Mrs. Hudson."

"Should I call someone, John?"

"No. I should think not. Not until we know. I'll call as soon as I can."

She nodded tersely and wasted no time in packing up Rosie. The time ticked painfully as she installed the car seat in her Aston Martin and settled the sleeping girl. John waited until he was sure they were on the way, before turning and slowly completing the ascent to their apartment door.

He wasn't sure what to expect. With their past, it could be any number of things or any number of people. Perhaps Sherlock was being held hostage and had convinced the perpetrator to let him let Rosie go.

John's hand was shaking as it closed around the knob, heart wrenching painfully as he turned it slowly and opened the door. What he saw infuriated him. Instantly. Sherlock must have been raging, albeit quietly, as their flat was practically destroyed. Papers and books littered the ground. Nothing was broken. But there, stabbed to the top of the mantel, was the thing that Sherlock could not deal with. As usual.

He inhaled deeply and shut the door behind him, silently praying it wasn't what it appeared to be. He crossed the short distance to the mantel, careful not to slip on any of the papers. He knew. He already knew, but he had to see it. Had to. "God dammit, Sherlock," he swore quietly. Cocaine. A syringe. Oxycontin. Morphine. Heroin. A pipe. Even a bloody fucking spoon and candle. A veritable stash of drugs and paraphernalia.

Rage filled him. The kind of burning hot, red-eyed rage that John hadn't felt since Mary's death. God help Sherlock if he were high. God help Sherlock if he had left their daughter – no, _his_ – daughter with Mrs. Hudson so he could get high.

  
The low growl that left him was guttural, almost feral, and it bled almost unknowingly into the name of the consulting detective. "Rrrrrr—SHERLOCK! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?" Without thinking, John swept the mantel clean, the drugs flying wildly across the room and joining the mess.

"John. I'm in here." The reply was small. Soft. Almost weak. It came from Sherlock's room.

John moved with a swiftness and determination that he hadn't used in quite some time, summoning on his training as a soldier to close the distance to the door efficiently. He braced himself against the door frame, throwing open the door to allow himself to see without being seen. Instinct was driving him now. This was war, wasn't it?

Sherlock, the larger than life detective, sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in his coat and scarf. He was pale, his left fist was clenched as it sat beside him. His right palm pressed into his knee. He was shaking, slightly. He seemed small. Small and guilty.

John growled, Sherlock's body language triggered his rage, and it crossed dangerously from red-hot to burning white. Sherlock felt guilty, because he was guilty! He crossed the room swiftly, jerking the man up by the lapel of his coat, even though the detective was taller than him. "YOU PROMISED! HOW COULD YOU?!"

Sherlock flinched and looked away, eyes not meeting John's in what John took to be an admission of guilt, but the detective licked his lips and said steadfastly, "I didn't-"

John didn't let him finish. He roared, and in one swift motion, he dropped the detective and swung, landing a punch that split the detective's lip. Sherlock went down, and in the next moment, John was on him, ready to swing again. Sherlock brought his arms up, defensively covering his face. "John stop! I'm not high, dammit!"

This wasn't like the time at the hospital with Culverton Smith when Sherlock knew he deserved it and took John's rage as his punishment. Sherlock defended himself. He spoke up. The realisation stopped John's second swing. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist, admittedly a bit too roughly and checked his pulse. Elevated, probably from adrenaline, but not from drugs. He slid the sleeve up, no track marks. He shoved Sherlock's arms from his face, his eyes meeting Sherlock's as he searched them for any fog, any dilation, any hint his friend was lying. There was none. Sherlock Holmes was lucid, present, and as cognizant as ever.

John had just hit him for no reason.

"Fuck!" John exclaimed as he clambered off Sherlock. John wasn't sure how they'd ended up in the bed with John straddling the detective. Hand-to-hand combat had taught John when one was the shorter fighter, if you could take your opponent down, you could mount them and pound into them until they were unconscious. They'd be too busy defending to strike back. That instinct had taken over. He had meant to seriously hurt Sherlock.

The realisation shook him.

He inhaled deeply and tried to keep the shaking from his voice. "What the… bloody fuck… is going on?"

Sherlock sat up slowly, aware he wasn't completely out of danger, and that John could channel his rage at any moment. He wiped at his split lip, dismissively wiping the fresh blood onto his pants. The blood inside his mouth tasted metallic, but he couldn't focus on it right now, he had to tell John... the truth. He inhaled slowly. "You must promise not to hit me again until I'm done."

John didn't trust himself to answer. He took a deep breath and nodded once.

"Rosie and I were playing when I got a text from Lestrade. There was a break-in. The case was surprisingly simple, John, even you could have figured-"

"SHERLOCK!"

Chastised, Sherlock cleared his throat. "When I looked up from my phone, Rosie was playing with something she shouldn't have, a pill bottle. Unmarked. I recognized it from an old stash of mine. Sure enough, she'd managed to knock open a panel in my bedroom and find it."

"YOU SAID-"

"I didn't realize, John!" Sherlock stammered quickly. "I thought in the explosion from Eurus’ grenade and our remodel... I thought all of my stashes had been disposed of. These are not new and I swear to you, I thought they were all gone. I didn't remember... I..." He took a deep breath and composed himself. John had suddenly begun to realize how shaken Sherlock had been by the entire ordeal. Whether it was because Rosie had found something she shouldn't have or because there was something he didn't remember, John wasn't sure. He wasn't going to push for that answer until Sherlock had finished explaining. "I took them from her, of course, and I called Mrs. Hudson. I spent most of the day in my mind palace, trying to figure out... I found four more stashes, John, and I don't remember putting them where they were. I must have been too high... either that or someone else... but it doesn't make sense to be someone else. Does it?"

Sherlock's tongue flicked over the split in his lip, tonguing at the swelling flesh. John didn't reply. Instead he stood abruptly and left the room, Sherlock's bright blue eyes staring quizzically after him. Was this it? Would his friend move out? Was it over? After all they’d been through? He heard John shuffle around the kitchen, and John returned a few minutes later, shoving an ice pack wrapped in a towel at Sherlock.

"For your lip." His rage had dissipated. He felt... numb. Stupid. Rash. He'd almost physically hurt Sherlock. It wouldn’t have been the first time over the past few years, but it was the only time Sherlock hadn’t deserved it.

"I didn't want to hide it from you," Sherlock said softly as he took the ice pack.

"I know. I appreciate it." John said softly as he sat heavily onto the mattress next to Sherlock. Sherlock pressed the ice to his swelling lip. They sat in silence for a long time. "I'm sorry I hurt your lip."

"It's nothing," Sherlock replied quickly. "Inconsequential. I'm sorry I almost hurt Rosie."

The last thing John was expecting was an apology. Sociopaths didn't apologize, not with intention or meaning. They would apologize to manipulate. They would apologize sarcastically. They would not admit guilt or sincerely apologize. He’d changed over the last few year, become more emotional, but he still wasn’t in the habit of apologizing for something he’d deem minor. What could Sherlock want? What could he possibly need that would warrant-

_He wants you to stay._

John cleared his throat. "It's okay, Sherlock. I know you'd never intentionally hurt our daughter."

"Our daughter?"

"My daughter. Mine. I said ‘my'." John glanced furtively around the room. The image of Mary hadn't returned since he'd apologized for cheating. She still wasn't there. So why had he said "our"? It wasn't the first time he'd thought of Rosie that way, now that he thought of it. But it wasn't so odd was it? Even though he and Sherlock were not involved romantically, the man was helping raise the little girl. It was only natural that he begin to associate some meaning with that, wasn't it?

"Earth to John."

"Hmm?"

"I asked what we should do. About this. To make sure Rosie is safe. If I can't remember where I’ve put things..."

John held up a hand to stop Sherlock. The man had been thinking about this all day, with a singular sort of purpose that John could not match. He was tired. No, he was exhausted. The emotional roller coaster when he thought Sherlock may be in danger or hurt... their flat may be compromised... that Sherlock had betrayed him... the explosive rage and immediate relief. It was too much.

"First, I phone Mrs. Hudson to let her know everything is okay. I sent her to mine and Mary's flat not knowing what was going on. I thought you may have been held hostage or... who only knew. Then, I treat that lip of yours so it will heal. It doesn't look deep, so a couple of days at most, should fix it right up. Tomorrow, we get up and search the flat again. Anything we find we ask Lestrade to destroy to get it out of the house as quickly as possible. Then we clean up and go about our lives as normal. I don't have to work at the clinic tomorrow, so..."

Sherlock nodded. He was no longer shaking now that the fear his best friend would blame him was gone. Well, that, and now that John was here to distract him from taking something. He had wanted to... desperately... to take the edge off... help him focus. It was even a scientifically sound theory that if these stashes had been placed when he was high, he could re-enter that same state to find them, but getting high would have made it all so much worse.

Sherlock left his thoughts when the door to his room closed and he heard John on the phone with Mrs. Hudson assuring her everything was okay and they could return to 221B Baker Street first thing in the morning. He removed the cold compress from his face; his lip had stopped bleeding and was thoroughly numb, and he'd become rather warm in his coat. His first instinct (he was not proud to say) had been to run. He didn't want to face this, but after putting on his coat and scarf, something in him had snapped. He HAD to find everything. He HAD to make the flat safe. He HAD to make John want to stay.

If the last few years had taught him anything it was that Sherlock Holmes needed John Watson.

He peeled out of the coat and scarf and tossed them onto the nearby chair. He was vaguely aware of John still speaking with Mrs. Hudson, so he quickly undressed and slipped into a pair of his pajama pants. He hadn't quite pulled a shirt on before John re-entered the room, but at this point, what did it matter? John had seen him shirtless before. Hell, he'd seen him naked before. The consulting detective had nothing left to hide...

"Did you tell Mrs. Hudson?"

"No," John said with a firm shake of his head. "Not about what happened, only that it was safe. I did text Lestrade. He's going to come help us search. Things have been quiet at the Yard. Almost too quiet." Sherlock nodded curtly in acknowledgment, as John crossed to him holding a jar of something. Petroleum Jelly? John held it up with a shrug. "For your lip. It will help stop the bleeding. Best I could find. We need to get a first aid kit..."

"Why?"

"Toddlers are accident prone, Sherlock."

"Ah, of course," Sherlock replied as John opened the tub of petroleum jelly. Sherlock couldn't help but feel suddenly vulnerable, half-naked in front of his best friend. It was disconcerting. Years ago, he would have welcomed it, fantasised about it, but it had been so long, the thought felt almost new. And besides, Sherlock was always more brazen in his fantasies than he’d been in real life.

For his part, John was trying to ignore that Sherlock was shirtless and that he could feel the heat coming off his friend. He was trying to ignore the way the swollen lip caught his eye and made him think about something other than first aid. John reached up with a shaking hand, thumb running gently over the split.

The slight pain caused Sherlock's breath to hitch and his cock to jump. His body had always had a peculiar response to pain… and to John Watson. Without thinking he grabbed John's wrist to stop the doctor from touching his lip again. At least without anything to actually treat the wound.

"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?" John asked softly. He was suddenly aware he was having difficulties breathing. His mind was traveling a million places at once, and none of them were particularly... wholesome. _Never with Sherlock_ , he reminded himself. But it had been a long time for him… a long, long time.

"No," Sherlock's voice broke, as the word escaped him breathlessly. He inhaled sharply, and repeated his reply again, this time with more conviction. "No." He wasn't sure if that was for John's benefit or his own.

"Good," John whispered almost imperceptibly. He licked his own lips, suddenly aware he'd been staring at Sherlock's for quite some time. The tension was thick in the room. Almost oppressive. So many years ago, Sherlock had unabashedly confessed he was attracted to John, but John had stopped thinking of it when he’d died, stopped thinking of what could have been. Truth be known, the attraction hadn’t lessened, for either of them, they’d both just gotten better at ignoring it.

Sherlock's hand around John's wrist was burning with heat. Figuratively, of course. Sherlock swayed forward with temptation, but stopped himself suddenly. He had been avoiding this for years. Years. After he’d sworn off fantasising about John, he'd kept his urges in check with random trysts and nameless Internet hook-ups, men and women he could fuck once or twice and promptly forget. Occasionally, there was The Woman. The urges were just biology, of course, and once sated, he could focus on the game afoot.

But with Rosie, the opportunity for such release had become slim. It had been a long time… a very, long time.

And he was still holding John's wrist.

And John was dropping the petroleum jelly, and looking up at him with... desire?

Before Sherlock could move, he was ripped out of his mind palace by John's lips pressing against his, the shorter man's free hand tangling in his hair. John groaned softly, in the back of his throat, and Sherlock finally let go of his wrist, both hands finding their way to John's arse and pulling him closer. Their half-hard cocks pressed against one another eliciting a moan of excitement from both men.

John’s resolve had crumbled. _Never with Sherlock,_ had transformed to _Now! With Sherlock!_

The next few seconds were frantic, pure desire and instinct moving them as they both desperately tried to undress John. Coat. Jumper. Undershirt. A pause as they felt chest against chest, nipples rubbing against bare skin. Sherlock's pajamas and pants were next, easily left in a trail as they stumbled to the bed. John fumbled with his belt, his trousers dropping halfway before he realized he still had on shoes.

"FUCK!" he exclaimed in frustration.

"That's the plan," Sherlock replied with a sarcastic twist of his lips in that smile that was reserved for when he was being a smart arse to John, specifically.

The go to hell look John shot him was palpable, and for half a minute, Sherlock wondered if he'd ruined the mood. But after a momentary pause, John began kicking off his shoes and socks, his trousers and pants flung haphazardly across the room once free.

Sherlock giggled slightly as John tried to lift him onto the bed while kissing him and they both fell to the mattress as the military man failed to do so gracefully.

John broke the kisses to glare up at the consulting detective, a bit of anger hidden behind the desire, now. "Think that's funny, do you?"

The taller man smirked, lip curling in challenge to his best friend's question. "Hysterical."

He didn't reply, not verbally, instead his eyes narrowing as he straddled Sherlock with purpose, grinding their cocks together almost painfully. Both of them gasped in pleasure, cocks leaking pre-cum. John couldn't help but smirk triumphantly as Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head before fluttering closed. He leaned forward, cursing their height difference as he stretched to run his tongue against the hollow of Sherlock's neck. He could feel the other man's pulse there. It had quickened. Sherlock was certainly enjoying this.

"Take it back," he demanded in a whisper. "It's not funny."

Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head negatively once. John began to suck at the spot on Sherlock's neck, slightly rougher than a kiss. He intended to mark the detective, to teach Sherlock a lesson that their size different wasn't an issue to laugh at. His hips moved in ever slowing circles causing Sherlock's breath to hitch. Sherlock's fingers tangled in John's sandy blond hair, tugging gently.

"John," he whispered desperately. He wasn't quite sure what he was asking for as John began to nip at his neck. The sensations were almost too much. He wasn't used to not being in charge of the situation at hand. He wasn't used to being played so well. He had fantasised about that, of course, but the reality of it was so much better.

John Watson was very sexually experienced, and he seemed to be reading Sherlock’s desires straight from his mind. He felt Sherlock's cock jumping in response to each and every nip, and it occurred to him Sherlock liked pain. At least a little. John thought that was very important to know in the future and he filed it away.

He began to suckle that spot, his tongue gently caressing Sherlock's clavicle. Their hips had settled into a rhythm now, slow and circular, hard flesh versus hard flesh. Sherlock's breathing was ragged and short, the grip on John's hair almost painful. He became aware a low whine had started in the back of his throat - a sound he wasn't entirely conscious of making.

John sucked on the flesh deeper, feeling the capillaries give way to his administration; Sherlock would have a red and angry bruise in the morning. Sherlock inhaled sharply, tugging John from his neck with every ounce of self control he had. "John," he croaked. He was going to say more. There was a statement to make. Something important. Something essential.

He momentarily became lost in thought, his brain struggling to keep up with both sensation and logic. He was going to ask... if John wanted more. No... was going to tell him...

He was thrown sharply from his mind palace and back into the moment when John bit roughly into his nipple. He groaned, his eye's seeking his friend's as the shorter man smiled up at him. "Welcome back," he smirked as he began dragging his tongue town Sherlock's torso.

John slowly, but resolutely worked his way down Sherlock's body. From the other man's lack of response, John was aware he'd temporarily lost his friend. It was nothing personal. Sherlock had retreated to his mind palace. John settled between Sherlock's legs and licked his lips.

Sherlock's dick was longer than his but slightly thinner, in proportion to the man's longer body. He placed his hands on Sherlock's hips and inhaled his scent, not unpleasant, but entirely male. Sherlock was fully erect, the head peaking out of his foreskin, almost purple with desire and glistening. It had been a long time since John had done this, but he knew what he liked and was sure he could figure out what Sherlock would like, as well.

He ran his tongue from the base of Sherlock's cock to the tip, pushing it into the slit ever so slightly to taste his pre-cum. He swirled his tongue around the head and grinned as he heard Sherlock inhale sharply, his long fingers tangling into John's hair once again.

The first lick was unexpected, and wrenched Sherlock from his thoughts resolutely back to the real world. His fantasies had come to life. All of them. Sherlock could die in peace now. John's eyes were closed in concentration as he slowly sucked the tip of Sherlock's cock into his mouth. Sherlock could not keep track of the movements of John's tongue, flicking here and there and everywhere.

John moved slowly down the shaft taking more and more of Sherlock into his mouth, breathing deeply as he went. His tongue still moved with precision, and his hand slid down Sherlock's thigh to take his balls gently and give them a squeeze.

Sherlock tried to hold very still, muscles trembling with delight as John's warm wet mouth slowly surrounded him. His breathing was ragged and the room spun around him. The stimulation from John's mouth and tongue on his cock and the massaging of his balls was almost too much. For a moment, all deductions stopped, and Sherlock lived in the moment, experiencing nothing but sensation.

And then John's lips reached the base of his dick, a bead of drool slid down his balls. The tongue movement had all but stopped, no one could blame him for that. Sherlock could feel the tip of his cock deep in the back of John's throat, and he inhaled sharply, eyes flying open to take in the sight of his dick buried deep in John Watson's throat.  
  
Sherlock wanted to tell John how much he loved seeing his cock in John’s mouth, but the instant he tried to speak, John started to move. His head bobbed with surprising speed, moving up and down with ease. Sherlock's thoughts stopped then, as he focused on the intricate trailings of John's tongue, the warm cocoon of his mouth, the massage of his balls sending electricity up his spine.

John moaned deeply as Sherlock's fingers dug into his scalp and the lanky man pushed his heels against the mattress. Sherlock was trying to be good and not thrust - it could be disconcerting when a man shoved his dick farther in your mouth than you were ready to take it - but it was extremely difficult.

"John… John… John…" his name had become a mantra, the only thing Sherlock could ground himself to with so much pleasure surging through his system. The name faded into a low groan as Sherlock's balls began to draw up. He tugged mercilessly at John's hair trying to get the man to stop.

John groaned softly and squeezed Sherlock's balls, enjoying the way his pre-cum coated his tongue. He slowly slid up Sherlock's shaft, suction increasing until suddenly the head of Sherlock’s cock left his mouth with a pop.

Sherlock gasped deeply, trying to get air into his lungs as if he'd been drowning. His blue eyes snapped open and he stared at John. "Jesus, John…"

"Why did you stop me?" John asked smirking.

Sherlock shook his head, unable to form words into a reply. His skin was flushed, dark hair matted against his forehead, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. John loved the way Sherlock looked now; he was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as he was when he was making deductions and solving cases. "Would you be opposed to..." Sherlock hesitated, the words stopping unbidden. He nodded toward his bedside table. "Condoms... lube..."

John almost laughed. Was Sherlock asking him if he would mind having sex with him? What part of what had happened so far gave the man the impression that he would mind it? He shook his head in response, reaching into the table Sherlock had indicated and gathering the requested supplies.

He reached for a pillows and slid them under Sherlock's hips as the man began stuttering. "John... you have to go slow."

"I know, Sherlock," he said as he poured the lube onto his fingers. He rubbed his fingers together to warm it, before teasing Sherlock's pert arsehole. He ran a finger around it slowly feeling Sherlock tense involuntarily.

"I... it's been a long time... for me..." Too long.

John nodded, slowly pushing a finger into the other man. Sherlock's protests became a sigh. "I know, Sherlock."

Sherlock moaned softly in response when John began moving his finger slowly. John was watching Sherlock carefully, taking his cues from Sherlock's breathing, the way his body moved to meet his thrusts. Sherlock wanted more. He worked slowly, adding a second finger with patience. Sherlock licked his lips, wanted to put together words to tell John something, but they escaped him as soon as he thought of them.

John had picked up speed, two fingers moving rather quickly in and out of his friend as he stretched him. He was watching Sherlock's face closely, as the pleasure played across his friend's face, back arching ever so slightly, breathing becoming slightly ragged.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “things are different with a man-”

“I know, Sherlock,” John stated, rolling his eyes. Really? Was Sherlock trying to give him pointers as he was shagging him senseless. “We discussed this years ago… not my first time… remember…”

“Yes, but-”

John curled his fingers, hitting the bundle of sensitive nerves which would drive his friend to shut up. Lights exploded behind Sherlock's eyes and his statement faded into an incoherent moan. He was going to reply it had been a while since John had sex with a man, but the words were gone as soon as he thought them.

"Oh... yes, Sherlock, how could the doctor possibly not know the difference between the prostate and a woman's G spot?" he asked sarcastically, as his fingers slid easily in and out, each stroke hitting Sherlock's prostate for emphasis. "Poor, lowly, John Watson, idiot doctor, can't even pleasure his mate because he doesn't know anatomy."

"Nnnn-gggggh.... I didn't... I didn't..."

John rolled his eyes, capturing Sherlock's lips in a fierce kiss as he pulled his fingers from the other man. "Shut up," he hissed as he pulled away. Sherlock's cock was dripping angrily and the desire written on Sherlock's face told John that was the only reason his friend wasn't fighting back.

He sat back on his heels, and quickly (almost expertly) rolled on a condom, covering his hand in lube and making sure he could slide in easily. He guided himself to Sherlock's ass, the head of his cock meeting some resistance as it pushed. It had been a long, long time for the world's only consulting detective. "Sherlock, look at me," he said softly. Sherlock's eyes met his, though the other man bit into his already swollen lip. "Breathe out... try to relax."

Sherlock exhaled on command and shifted slightly, lifting his hips to accommodate John's angle. He groaned and hissed as the ring of muscle gave way. John leaned forward, a hand placed on either side of Sherlock as he slowly, ever so slowly, pushed in deeper. Inch by inch he moved, pausing to allow Sherlock to adjust.

By the time he was buried deep in his friend, he was covered in sweat and shaking from restraint. Sherlock's legs wrapped around him, and his nails dug into John's back. He inhaled deeply, "John," he whimpered, not realizing the desperate and rather undignified tone his voice had taken. "Move."

John grunted softly as he began to move, the tight warmth of Sherlock's ass feeling as if it were going to squeeze the life out of him. A moan escaped him and he slowly began to pick up speed, shifting slightly to make sure that Sherlock's prostate was being stimulated.

He was rewarded with a deep groan, and his best friend's eyes rolling into the back of his head.

If it hadn't been so long for John, he may have attempted another position, tried to jack off Sherlock as he fucked him senseless, but it was all he could do to support his own weight and keep his hips moving. His eyes involuntarily shut and he took a deep breath as he began to move faster. Nothing but moans, and the sound of slick skin against slick skin filled the air.

John silently prayed to whatever deity oversaw fucking that he'd be able to hold out long enough for Sherlock to find his release.

He lost track of how long John fucked him, of how long they moaned and gasped in unison. Sherlock could feel John filling him, his cock getting harder and harder with each stroke. He slid a hand between them, stroking his own cock in unison to John's thrusts. Sherlock leveraged his hips slightly and the head of John's cock pummeled into his prostate with each piercing stroke.

The moan in the back of his throat grew louder and longer as his balls pulled up tight. "Don't stop... John fuck... fucking don't stop!" he shouted loudly as the first shudder of orgasm hit him hard. It felt like it started in his toes and vibrated up his body, wrenching an almost guttural scream from his lips as he began shooting a rather impressive load.

Sherlock was still coming down, his hand slowing its movement as he collapsed into the bed. His legs were tired... he was tired... but John kept fucking him, stroke after stroke through his orgasm. Sherlock wasn't really sure how his friend could be any harder or how his balls could pull any tauter. He dug his nails into John's skin, half-moons digging in and drawing blood. He hoped maybe the pain would be the edge his friend needed for release.

In response, John bit into Sherlock's shoulder roughly, the sounds he was making almost an inhuman scream as his orgasm overtook him, every shudder caused him to bite harder and soon, Sherlock's own moans of mixed pain and pleasure joined John's.

He had no idea how long they were like that, before John collapsed against him, still shaking, exhausted, and spent. He laid there for a moment gathering his strength and catching his breath before he slowly rolled off of Sherlock, lazily stretching out as he tried to catch his breath. "Didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked softly.

"No," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He was sore. He had a hickey, and indentions of John's teeth on his shoulder which was rapidly bruising. He felt as if he'd been fucked raw. But he wasn't hurt. "Just tired."

John nodded once, and tried to gather the energy to get up to at least get them a flannel. He felt himself softening, and pulled off the condom, tossing it haphazardly to join their clothes. He'd get it in a moment. "Me too. Need to clean up, though."

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John. "It can wait."

"You're covered..."

"Nothing soap and water can't help in the morning."

John nodded again and relaxed against his friend. He was too tired to begin to question things. Too tired to wonder about the future. Too tired to worry. They had almost done this so many times before, had at this point so many years ago, that at it didn’t seem unusual they would find their way back. It was different now, so much baggage and hurt between them… and they had Rosie now, but they could make it work. They had been making it work so far. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied. For the few blissful minutes after sex, Sherlock’s brain actually turned off for a moment. He wasn’t thinking, observing deducing. He wasn’t concocting some experiment, trying to learn something new from YouTube, or picking up yet another language. He was just existing. Endorphins quieted his logical thought.

"Say something," John said softly.

"Something," Sherlock replied with a laugh.

"Prat," John replied sleepily, as he swatted Sherlock's chest. Without waiting for a response, he slipped into a deep, sated slumber. Their problems would be waiting for them in the morning.


	9. What is love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally address their feelings for one another and begin to move forward.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Sherlock had gone very still, a glassy look in his eyes that John knew meant he was off in his mind palace having an entire conversation without him. John sighed heavily again, and wiped Rosie’s hands and face and her tray so she wouldn’t make an even bigger mess. He waited for Sherlock to rejoin him. Thankfully it didn’t take long.
> 
> “Is that what we are? A couple?” he asked softly.
> 
> John didn’t reply immediately, instead he threw away the uneaten portion of cereal and washed Rosie’s bowl and spoon. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted finally. Could anyone ever really be a couple with Sherlock Holmes? It seemed they were close. They lived together, worked together, looked after one another. They were raising a child together.
> 
> “Is it because we had sex?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

The days following their… rendezvous… were busy. After a thorough search, John and Sherlock were thoroughly convinced they had retrieved all the hidden stashes, and they promptly turned them over to Lestrade to have them destroyed. He had threatened to arrest Sherlock for possession based on the sheer amount of drugs present, but John had successfully talked him out of it, because of Rosie.

Then came their first proper case in months.

When the first body was discovered in a hotel room, it seemed like an obvious case of an overdose on sleeping pills. The sleeping pills had been prescribed, and there was no hint of foul play. The only hint something was odd was that the man was local, so why was he in a hotel room? But when a second body (this time female) was found in a similar state months later, and then a third, almost a year after the first, Sherlock was called in.

Toxicology had shown nothing remarkable. The obvious solution was there was a bad batch of the sleeping pills, but they were different brands and strengths and on testing the pills, they were fine. Each of the victims had precisely the number of pills the should have if they were taking them as prescribed based on the fill date. The victims had no intersectionality that was obvious - they had very different jobs, there were two males and one female, were various ethnicities, and were aged between 20 and 50. They had different hobbies and interests and were found in three different parts of the city. Their pills, though filled at the same chemist chain, were all filled at different locations.

So how and why had they died?

It was Watson who noticed the detail which broke the case. The third body had a small bruise on the abdomen. Nothing very suspicious and Sherlock had brushed it off initially as the man having bumped into something or having leaned against a drawer pull awkwardly. He was, after all, aenemic, which made bruising more likely. But something about the bruising kept nagging at Sherlock.

It wasn’t until they were out for dinner one night that Sherlock happened to glance a similar bruise on a woman picking up her take out order. She’d shifted just right and the hem of her shirt had come up. It was smaller and in a different position on her abdomen, but unmistakably the same - about the size of a ten pence, darker in the center and feathering outward. He’d left John with Rosie at the table and crossed to the woman.

“Excuse me, sorry if this is too forward, but I must ask you a question,” Sherlock had begun. John had been trying to convince him that he could get more information by talking to people nicely than by demanding it. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it came across weird. “Where precisely did you get that bruise?”

The woman had narrowed her eyes at him, looking up at him with suspicion, until recognition dawned her face. “Oy, you’re Sherlock Holmes! What bruise?” She seemed eager to help, but confused as to what he was talking about. Was she possibly another victim who hadn’t yet noticed her fate?

Sherlock had quickly visually checked her breathing, made sure she wasn’t sweating, assessed her pallor… there was nothing to show she was in distress. “On your abdomen,” he clarified.

She lifted the hem of her shirt and shrugged a bit. “I’m diabetic. Had to take an extra shot last night, because I had a stubborn high and my insulin pump wasn’t helping. Why?”

“John! Insulin!” he’d shouted immediately.

A few whirlwind hours later, they’d pieced together the story. A pharmacy technician working for the chain was the killer, and after she’d killed one client, she’d transfer locations. She’d chat up clients specifically on sleeping pills, targeting married ones with wandering eyes. Eventually, she’d talk them into an affair, and then go to the spouse, spinning a tale of subterfuge and lies. She blamed the affair on the victim, convinced the spouse they’d both been lied to, and talk them into revenge. She’d kill their cheating spouse for them for a portion of the life insurance.

The spouses agreed and she’d work on the victims, convincing them to spend one night with her. They’d beg off for a business trip and meet her at a hotel. Once they’d taken the sleeping pill, she’d inject them with insulin obtained by writing it off as waste at the pharmacy, killing them in their sleep. Blood sugar was not often tested in biopsy, and even if it were, the body usually triggered the liver to dump glucose to increase it after the person had died. There was no evidence… save one bruise on one body… and the confession Sherlock managed to get her to make.

But the case was over, the blog had already been updated, John was back to regular clinic duty, and Sherlock was currently studying up on insulin so he could make sure if he’d missed something it wouldn’t happen again.

It was a rainy Saturday morning and the three of them sat gathered around the breakfast table. Sherlock was sipping coffee while scrolling through the news on his phone. It was faster this way, though they still picked up paper copies to rifle through together later. John was concentrating on feeding Rosie her cereal; Rosie, however, was concentrating on spitting up more of it than she was swallowing. She was probably done eating but John was steadfast in trying to get her to finish as much as he could.

John cleared his throat and Sherlock steeled himself for some conversation he didn’t want to have. Sherlock didn’t bother to look up from his phone. “Rosie’s check-up is on Monday. Time for her next round of vaccines.”

“I can take her,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. Even though they’d been living together for month, first at the flat he’d bought with Mary, and now back at Baker Street, John sometimes acted like Rosie was a burden for Sherlock. Sherlock had not figured out why.

“Oh… I took off. I thought we could… take her together,” John said hesitantly.

“They don’t need both of us. It seems like a waste for both of us to go. I’ll stay home, maybe I can find a case,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. There was nothing of interest in the news today and that was infuriating. Maybe he should go to the morgue.

John sighed heavily. “I thought… Rosie might like it if we both took her,” he tried again. John had decided to try subtle… to maybe hint to Sherlock that he was ready for the next step… to tell him without actually saying the words, that after their night together, he didn’t see why they should keep pretending they weren’t a couple.

Sherlock looked up from his phone, took in the expression on John’s face. He had no idea what John was trying to say, but it made no sense. “John, Rosie is 12 months old. She neither cares nor will remember who took her to get her vaccinations. Cognitively, your daughter is closer to a potato than a human being right now.” As if to prove his point, Rosie began blowing bubbles in her cereal. She found it hilarious and tried to tell them so in her babbling speech. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and tilted his head toward her as if to say ‘see?’

John, however, looked furious. He took a few breaths and closed his eyes to center himself, before trying one last time. “Sherlock, I want you to come with us,” he stated simply.

“Why?” Sherlock asked glancing up from the phone again.

“Jesus, Sherlock, for a genius you really are an idiot. Because it’s what couples _do_ , Sherlock. They take their children to doctor’s appointments, sometimes… _together_.” He dropped the small bowl holding Rosie’s cereal on the table. The little girl jumped, but otherwise, paid no attention, continuing to babble quietly.

Sherlock had gone very still, a glassy look in his eyes that John knew meant he was off in his mind palace having an entire conversation without him. John sighed heavily again, and wiped Rosie’s hands and face and her tray so she wouldn’t make an even bigger mess. He waited for Sherlock to rejoin him. Thankfully it didn’t take long.

“Is that what we are? A couple?” he asked softly.

John didn’t reply immediately, instead he threw away the uneaten portion of cereal and washed Rosie’s bowl and spoon. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted finally. Could anyone ever really be a couple with Sherlock Holmes? It seemed they were close. They lived together, worked together, looked after one another. They were raising a child together.

“Is it because we had sex?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Jesus, Sherlock, not in front of Rosie!” he hissed, blushing a bit.

Sherlock looked from John to Rosie and back to John. “She’s not old enough to remember this conversation. Again, potato.”

“Would you please stop calling her a potato?!” John’s exasperation was clear, even to Sherlock, but sometimes, he liked goading John and this was a relatively minor thing. He knew Sherlock didn’t mean it.

“Well, she is. There is no way that even a year from now, your daughter will remember us sitting around the table having a conversation about the two of us having sex.”

John turned the water off and gripped the edge of the sink. Sherlock could be so damn infuriating. All he’d wanted to do was address the elephant in the room (figuratively, not talk about the case), but obviously Sherlock didn’t want to take it seriously. “Forget I said anything.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said without further comment.

John crossed to Rosie, removing her from her high chair, and took her to the sitting room where he set her on a blanket. In an instant, Rosie was on her feet, exploring the area. She had started taking more risks, walking without holding onto things. In reality, Sherlock was pleased with her development. She was smart, though he’d never admit it to John. She seemed keen to spend time with John, because no sooner had he sat down than she had made her way to him, begging to be picked up. “DAAAAAAAA!” she exclaimed, and John gave in, putting her on his lap. She tugged at his shirt collar to help herself up and began bouncing excitedly when she saw Sherlock over his shoulder. She clenched her fist at him in something approximating a wave and Sherlock sighed.

“What time?” he asked, standing to move from the kitchen to his seat across from Watson.

“What?” John asked as Sherlock passed by.

Rosie motioned up, and without hesitation he picked the little girl up. She trilled and reached behind him as he sat down in his own chair, “Ba-ba-ba.” He glanced behind him and grabbed one of her picture books that was on the desk and handed it to her. “Yes, book, you’re nearly there,” he mumbled to her. “What time, Monday?” he asked John.

“10,” John replied absently. Watching Sherlock with Rosie was a bit amazing. John would have never thought it, but he was good with the little girl; his deductive skills often meant he was able to figure out what she wanted before she even knew. His refusal to use baby talk seemed to be helping her language development, and his obsession with classical music and composing certainly wasn’t hurting, either. There were nights when Rosie simply refused to sleep, screaming her head off while teething, and the only thing that could soothe her was Sherlock’s violin.

“I’ll be there,” he replied, “if I can make room in my schedule.” John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, but was secretly pleased. Sherlock could tell in the way the tension relaxed in his shoulders. He went to reach for the TV remote to turn it on for the news, but stopped himself. “There’s more, isn’t there?” Sherlock asked.

Watson, cleared his throat. “What happened… changes things.”

A lot of things had happened. He’d agreed to go to the appointment, for one. They’d eaten breakfast, they’d solved a case. They’d moved in together again. They’d nearly been murdered; Mary had been murdered. Their flat had exploded - twice, although the first time it was collateral damage. In none of that, ever, had John Watson acted like this. “When we had sex?” Sherlock half-stated, half-asked.

“Yes,” John agreed. He decided not to argue about not saying that in front of Rosie. Sherlock was right, and for now, they didn’t have to worry about having such frank conversations where she could hear. They should take advantage of it while they could.

“I’m not sure why it has to. It’s never changed things for me before,” Sherlock stated. Rosie was playing with the book, taking in the pictures and the colours and the words. She was currently fascinated with Cat and she was excitedly trying to tell the cat in the picture something.

John clenched his jaw and tried to approach this from another angle. He’d known, of course, that Sherlock hadn’t had romantic relationships before. Sherlock Holmes was not a romantic person. Honestly, when moving back in John had never considered the possibility that was what this might become. But being with Sherlock daily, again, and watching him with Rosie… it made John thought maybe it could work. Maybe one could actually be in love with a sociopath, and have them love you. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

The question took Sherlock by surprise. What did Watson mean? He hadn’t been manipulating him when they’d had sex. Honestly, he hadn’t even initiated it, really. There were no gift giving occasions approaching. “What?”

“From me. What do you want?” John clarified, or thought he clarified. Sherlock, however, looked absolutely confused, and John was wondering just how blatant he was going to have to be.

In reality, that did absolutely nothing to clarify things for Sherlock. What did he want from John? When? Where? “I need more context.”

“Do you want me to keep living here?” John finally decided to ask. He was going to have to spell things out to Sherlock, point out how they were a couple, and probably, even a romantic one.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock answered. He wondered if this were about the lack of space. Rosie was still small, but she would need her own room, eventually. The should have thought about that in the remodel.

“Do you want to go on dates?” John kept pressing. Frankly, the idea of he and Sherlock on a date was a bit humourous. They didn’t go on dates; they went on cases… but was that really any different?

“Dates?” Sherlock asked with a bit of a laugh. He’d managed to keep the derision out of his voice, for the both part, but it was clear the last thing Sherlock Holmes would ever consider was actually dating someone.

It took everything John had not to laugh at Sherlock. It really wasn’t hard to see how much of their life - their relationship - had been a mystery to the other man. He was a complete idiot, sometimes. “To dinner. The movies. To see shows. To museums.”

“We… already do that,” Sherlock said slowly. It was suddenly becoming clear to him why, over the many years he and Watson had become friends, people had assumed they were together. The way they lived, interacted… the way they took care of one another.

“Yes, but do you want those dates to having meaning?”

“I’m not following,” Sherlock stated. He really wasn’t sure how dates had meaning, anyway. You were simply sharing companionship. There wasn’t something to get worked up over, all nerves and planned machinations.

John sighed heavily. He thought for a moment he was getting somewhere, as a look of recognition had slowly begun to dawn on Sherlock’s face. “Do you want to share a bed… for more than sex?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock answered hesitantly. Rosie slipped off his lap and waddled to John who picked her up almost absently. She showed him the cat, and Watson whispered to her lovingly about the cat in the picture. She settled down then and fell onto his lap snuggling against him.

“We already slept the night together,” John said, turning his attention back to Sherlock. “After we…”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. It was, after all, a statement of fact. After Watson had shagged him nearly senseless, he’d fallen asleep next to him, and it hadn’t taken long for a sated Sherlock to follow him into sleep.

John was rubbing Rosie’s arm as she showed him the pictures in the book. She had moved on from cat, and was diligently trying to tell her father everything she saw. Sherlock wondered if there were a story to it all, or if she was just trying to get the words right. “And do you want that to happen again?”

“I’m not moved strongly in either direction.” He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t commit to Watson sleeping in his bed every night. It seemed… intimate, maybe too intimate. Even after all they’d been through together, it seemed like maybe they were going too far. But then again, it also didn’t seem terrible.

“Do you want to hold my hand? Hug me? Kiss me?”

Holding hands seemed like a dumb expression of sentiment. They’d already held hands while escaping when he’d been falsely arrested for kidnapping those children, and John had been rightfully arrested for punching the Chief Inspector. It wasn’t particularly thrilling. Hugs seemed odd, as well, but useful when one of them were in distress. There was something comforting about being in Watson’s arms when the world had felt like too much for him to handle. Kissing, on the other hand, kissing was something he definitely wanted to do… and often. “Some of those things,” he conceded.

“In public?” John was trying to figure out where the boundaries lay for Sherlock. Affection did not come easy for the other man, and in reality, in many ways, it didn’t come easily for John either. He couldn’t imagine either of them being overly fond with public displays of affection

“No!” Sherlock practically shouted. Rosie jumped a bit and raised her voice as if she were telling Sherlock precisely where to go, before settling back against John.

It took everything John had not to laugh at his daughter’s reaction to Sherlock raising his voice. To be fair, he hadn’t expected that Sherlock would react so vehemently against the idea of PDA, but then again… his brother was Mycroft. Imagine Mycroft’s reaction to the sight of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson holding hands while walking down the street. That really wasn’t helping him not laugh. “Sherlock… we’re a couple,” he stated finally.

“Are we?” Sherlock asked, standing quickly. He began pacing, as he often did when he was thinking about something.

“We are,” John said after a moment. “I love you… and you love me. We’ve lived together and cared for one another for years. We’ve been through… every possibly horrific event possible, and more than most couples. We’re raising a child together.”

Sherlock spun on John, frowning deeply, “What is love? It’s just a series of bio-chemical reactions in the brain-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John interrupted. “I told you all those years ago… before Eurus, before Mary, before the fall… what it meant when I said I loved you. I told you… tenderness, caring, protection… and there’s more… devotion, trust… desire. I have shown you all of that, and more. You’ve shown me the same, in kind. I know you care for me… you may even love me, even if you don’t want to admit it. So, the point remains… I love you. You love me. We live together. We’re raising a child together. We are a couple.”

“Okay,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt like he should perhaps argue against this. John being with him would put him in danger, and probably Rosie, as well. He should remain distant, not become involved… but it was far too late for that, wasn’t it?

“That doesn’t mean things have to change outside of this flat, though, if you don’t want it to,” John added quickly. He could see that Sherlock was panicking and he was trying to slow that from happening. “But I’m moving into your room… soon. We’ll pick up a baby monitor for Rosie… she should have her own room.”

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed. He stopped pacing and threw himself into his chair. He was trying not to focus too much on what John had said or its implications, was just trying to accept what Watson had said to him. “Does this mean we get to have more sex?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“My God, you are a bleeding idiot,” John said with a laugh and a roll of his eyes. Sherlock laughed with him, as he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He felt the need to be doing something, but he wasn’t sure what. He should make tea… or play violin… or the morgue! Yes, a trip to the morgue. He was just about to ask if John wanted to join him when his phone went off, the text message alert the sound of a woman moaning.

John’s expression changed and he cleared his throat. “Does… does she still text you, then?” Sherlock nodded. “Do you ever text back?” he asked.

Sherlock sighed softly, cleared his throat. “Sometimes,” he admitted.

Watson was instantly jealous, but shoved the feeling down deep. After all, until just a few moments ago, they weren’t a couple… and even now, he may have to accept that Irene Adler would still be in Sherlock’s life. “What do you talk about then?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead he flipped over the phone, glanced at the message, and then passed it to John wordlessly. John let his eyes drop from Sherlock’s face to the message.

_Have you taken him to dinner, yet?_


	10. Epilogue

The violinist’s bow work could use improvement and their hands were shaking with nervousness causing a false vibrato that didn’t really suit the song. The fingerings of some of the notes were slightly off, resulting in the over all tone of the song being slightly flat. It took everything Sherlock had for him not to flinch, and he was counting down the moments to when the song would end. The performer was definitely not a virtuoso, but then, not everyone could be. The song ended and John Watson flew to his feet in a standing ovation, though, he was the only one. Sherlock slid lower in his seat, embarrassment creeping up his features. Thankfully, this signaled the end of the winter concert for Miss Mona’s School of Music.

Mycroft, Sherlock, and John stood in silence at the back of the room, waiting for the final performer to join them. They didn’t have to wait long. “Daddy!” exclaimed Rosie as she threw herself into John’s legs, hugging them tight. “Sherlock!” she added, repeating the ritual. “Uncle Mycroft!” Sherlock nearly laughed aloud at the sight of the five year old blond girl clinging to his brother’s legs. “What did you think?” she asked, looking up at him expectantly.

“Your performance was-” Sherlock did not want to hear what Mycroft actually thought. He knew what Mycroft actually thought. He cleared his throat to stop the potential insults from reaching the little girl's ears. Mycroft met his eyes and forced himself himself to say something nice. “Adequate.”

“You did great,” John exclaimed, always the doting father. He shot Mycroft a go to hell look for his efforts. John was not completely musically incompetent, he knew that Rosie needed a lot of work, but he didn’t want to discourage her.

“Next time, we should probably choose your performance piece before the night before so I can help you practice,” Sherlock suggested. Rosie had only been taking lessons for a couple of months and was frustrated easily. She had expected to pick up the violin and sound exactly like Sherlock which simply wasn’t practical. As a result, she sometimes refused to practice. Sherlock was doing his best to encourage her and not get frustrated with how stubborn she was. She got that after her father.

“Okay. Can we get ice cream now?” she asked, looking up at the men with her wide blue eyes.

They were just about to cave in, when the unmistakable sound of sirens filled the air, and a few minutes later Lestrade and two police officers stepped into the concert hall. Lestrade caught Sherlock’s sight and nodded for him to follow him. “We need you,” he said.

Sherlock grinned and knelt down to Rosie’s level. “Let’s play deductions, my little potato,” he said excitedly, reaching to boop her nose. He turned her around so she was facing Lestrade and the policeman.

“Sherlock, now is not the time,” John said clearing his throat. He had really wished that Sherlock hadn’t taught Rosie this game (and that he would stop referring to his daughter as a potato), but she seemed to enjoy it.

The little girl’s eyes flitted from Lestrade to the police officer and back again. “There’s been a murder!” she exclaimed. “And you and Daddy have to help Lestrade solve it!”

“What else?” Sherlock encouraged.

“Aaaaaand… we can’t get ice cream tonight and Uncle Mycroft is going to have to take me home,” she added, a bit upset. It was more the promise of ice cream unfulfilled that upset her than having to go with Mycroft.

“We can get ice cream tomorrow,” John assured her, and she brightened up a bit.

“What else?” Sherlock interrupted before John could distract her too much from the problem at hand.

“Hmmmm…” the little girl looked from one adult to the other, not willing to admit she couldn’t see or think of anything else. Finally her eyes fell on John, and she motioned Sherlock closer to whisper in his ear, “Daddy’s going to ask you to marry him. He’s been carrying the ring forever and a crime scene is probably the best place for him to ask.” She giggled a bit at having let go of the secret and clasped her hand over her mouth.

“Nooooo. I’ve known that for ages, silly,” he said, and he turned the girl back around to take in the scene before her. “Think… really think,” he prompted.

Rosie’s eyes darted around again and landed on Lestrade’s shoes. _Mud. Dark mud. It hasn’t rained. Must be near water. Sirens couldn’t be heard from far off… body of water… near the concert hall… the Thames?_ “They found the body near the Thames?” she asked hesitantly.

Sherlock blinked and jumped a bit in surprise. Rosie was not on his level and could never hope to reach it, but occasionally, she surprised him with her intuitiveness. “No… well, yes… but not what I was talking about,” he admitted.

“What?” she asked as she turned to face him, her face scrunched up in a quizzical expression not unlike John's when he was having trouble following Sherlock's deductions.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” he said with a smile, “the game is on.” He stood abruptly, dramatically throwing on his coat and crossing the short distance to Lestrade. It took a moment for John to react, and he struggled to keep up with the taller men.

“Don’t forget the hat,” Rosie called after them, “and turn up your collar! It makes you look cool!” Sherlock pulled the hat from his inner coat pocket, settled it on his head, and pulled up his collar as Rosie instructed.

“Sherlock- Sherlock, come back! I’m not your babysitter,” Mycroft yelled in frustration at the sight of his fleeing brother’s coat.

Rosie slipped her hand into his and looked up at him, smiling, her blue eyes sparkling. “You are tonight.”


End file.
